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sued 3Ioiithly. 


[No. 1.] 


Price 25 Cents, 


Entered at the Post Office at New York at Second Class Rates.— March 25, 1889. 




Copyrighted hy George JIunro, 1889.— By Subscription $3.00 per Annum. 


The Library of 


American Authors. 

% 

^Um 

<iv d'* d'* 


MY OWN SIN. 

By MBS. MAR Y E. BR YAN, 

Author of “Manch,” ‘‘The Fugitive Bride,” “Kildee,” “Ruth the Outcast,” etc. 



GEORGE MUNRO, PUBLISHER, 

17 TO 37 VANDEWATER STREET, NEW YORK. 




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A CRITICISM OF 

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A NEW NOVEL BY TEE AUTHOR OF 

“THE SILENCE OF BEAN MAITLAND.” 


Now Ready, in the January Number of 

THE NEW YORK FASHION BAZAR, 

A NEW STORY, ENTITLED 


"THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.” 

BY MAXWELL GRAY, 

Author of ‘‘The Silence of Dean Maitland/' etc. 


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“GUELD A.” 

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ALSO THE THIRD INSTALLMENT OP 

“SUZANNE/’ 

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INTERESTING ARTICLES ON 

Domestic and Household Affairs, Manners, and Fashions, 

By MRS. MARY E. BRYAN, 

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MRS. N. 8. STOWELE, and others. 

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Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1888, by 
GEORGE MUNRO, 

in the Offlce of the Librarian of Congress, Washington, D. C. 



MY OWN SIN. 


CHAPTEE L 

The sin was mine. I feel it in every remorseful throb 
of my heart. The punishment was mine, but alas! not 
mine alone. 

The root of my sin — it reaches down into the depths of 
my nature — it touches the mystery of heredity and of the 
pre-natal influences. 

1 was born during the stormy time of our Civil War. 

• My father had been an active politician in the South — an 
orator, whose impassioned eloquence swayed the multitude 
to his will. He led a battalion in the war, and fell at the 
head of his command in one of the latest and bloodiest 
battles of that desperate struggle. 

I inherited his ambitious, passionate nature. The law- 
lessness, the fever and strife of that era are in my blood. 

After the war my mother, a pretty, amiable, weak little 
woman, lived for years in the stately old plantation home, 
with its massive pillared veranda and its neglected pleas- 
ure-grounds — lived upon the meager income obtained by 
renting the broad rice and cotton lands that had once been 
cultivated by slaves; then, flnding that mortgage and ruin 
stared her in the face,' she sold the plantation, paid her 
debts, and drifted to New York. 

She set up a boarding-house — of all things in the world! 
, — furnishing it with the money the sale of her southern 
home had brought. 

Never did a more graceful and charming landlady pre- 


6 


MY OWN SIl^. 


side at a boarding-house table; never were meals more 
daintily served; but the scheme was a failure. The serv- 
ants ran over her, the boarders failed to pay their bills, 
and, to crovvn all, she married one of them— a plausible, 
well-dressed fraud, who was deeply in arrears to her for 
board, and whose oily tongue succeeded in convincing her 
that she would be cheated and worried out of reason unless 
she put her affairs into his capable hands. 

He proved a tyrant. His brutality and selfishness nearly 
wore out the life of his meek victim. They might have 
crushed her completely but for me. Child though I was, 
Hagan was afraid of me. I defied him recklessly; I told 
him he was a brute, unworthy to touch my mother^s hand. 
When he tried to punish me he got the worst of it. No 
cat was more active than I, and none had sharper teeth 
and nails, or used them with fiercer energy in self-defense. 

At the end of five years, after spending all my mother ^s 
small means, Hagan left her, and went back to his native * 
England. 

The furniture and all my mother^s jewels were sold to 
pay debts, and we moved into a shabby lodging-house, 
where we three lived. I say we three, for there was a child 
that bore Hagan^s hated name, and had his yellow hair 
and violet eyes, with the creamy skin and delicate features 
of my mother. 

I am ashamed to say that I hated that child at first. I 
took charge of her, and fed her and nursed her through 
her infantine ailments because that was a duty; but I 
would never kiss or caress her — not even after I had grown 
in my heart to love her. 

One day, when I had been suffering with nervous head- 
ache, and lay on the lounge with closed eyes, she thought 
me asleep, and came tripping softly around, smoothing 
the pillow, stroking my hair with lightest touch, and at 
last stooping over and kissing me on the lips — a timid, 
flurried little kiss that touched me to the core. I opened 


MY OWN SIlsT. 


7 


my eyes, and when she would have slunk away, frightened 
at what she had done, I caught her to my breast and kissed 
her fondly. After that I forgot that little Nell had eyes 
the color of Hagan^s. She was my child, not his or even 
my mo therms, and she loved me with un child-like fervor 

We managed to earn a bare support. My mother gave 
lessons in music to two or three pupils — daughters of peo- 
ple who had known her. I kept the house, cooked the 
very simple meals, and did the family sewing, besides mak- 
ing bonnets and cheap bathing-suits for a firm that put 
out such work. 

A year went by, and then during the cold weather our 
little mother took rheumatism and could no longer go out 
to give lessons. The bonnet-making would not pay for 
food and shelter. I must do something else. I found, 
after awhile, employment in a dress-maker^s shop — a large 
establishment where twenty or thirty girls sat in a long, 
ill-ventilated room, and stitched away at silks, and velvets, 
and laces for more favored girls to wear — girls whose taper 
fingers never felt the needless prick, and who never knew 
what it was to 

Bend back from weary toil 

Lest llieir tears the work might soil.” 

Bitter thoughts came into my mind sometimes as I knelt 
to drape the costly fabrics on the forms of these favorites 
of fortune. I saw my own face beside theirs in the long 
mirror. I was as fair as they. More than this, there was 
a look of distinction in my face. The good blood I had in 
my veins showed itself in the finely chiseled features and 
expressive eyes. Yes, I was as well-born as they, and had 
as much refinement and intelligence, if not cultivation. I 
had read every book I could borrow or buy from the stalls 
full of second-hand volumes. Yet what a difference in my 
lot and theirs! They had pleasures till they were sated of 
them; jewels, dresses, flowers, lovers who took them to 


/ 


8 


MY OWN SIM. 


balls and to the opera and theater — those scenes of en- 
chantment of which I had had a haunting glimpse in my 
childhood. Poverty closed their doors to me now; Pov- 
erty forbade my wearing the soft^ beautiful fabrics I 
handled; Poverty made my mother's bed a hard mat- 
tress, and stinted the sugar in her tea, and kept Nell from 
school, and even from the Sunday afternoon trip to Coney 
Island which she longed for. Poor little one, she had out- 
grown her one nice suit. 


CHAPTER II. 

Spring was opening at last. The buds were bursting 
on the boughs of the great trees in the square. The snow 
had all melted, and the sun shone warm on the pavement. 

My hopes had brightened with the days. My weekly 
pay had been increased. I was now assistant fitter in Miss 
Nipper's establishment. 

The twentieth of April was my twentieth birthday. That 
fateful day! — how well I remember it — the day I first 
saw Gerald Oldridge— Jerr3^ Yes, I will call him mine 
still — mine in spite of all — in spite of my sin and its con- 
sequences — mine, first, last and forever. 

I wore a new dress that day — a nut-brown woolen gown, 
lighted up with crimson velvet at the neck and wrists. 
And my new brown straw hat had a bunch of red poppies 
in the loops of brown ribbon that trimmed it. 

That hat was the cause of my knowing Gerald. As I 
was going home on that afternoon of my birthday, there 
came up a sudden gust of wind and rain; the hat was 
blown from my head as I was crossing Sixth Avenue. I 
turned to recover it, but it had been whirled on the track 
of the street-cars, directly in front of a rapidly advancing 
car. The horses' feet would soon crush it to fragments— 
my pretty new hat! I uttered a little cry of dismay. It 
had hardly left my lips when I saw a young man throw 


MT OWN SIN. 


9 


himself in front of the car and snatch up the hat with his 
right hand, while the left was thrown out to check the 
horses, whose feet were almost upon the hat. He rescued 
it undamaged, however. He came up to me, smiling and 
flushed, brushing off a few grains of dust from iihe ribbon 
with his handkerchief, then holding the hat out to me with 
a bow. How handsome he looked! I can see him now — 
my Jerry! 

Oh, I thank you,^^ I said, blushing. It would have 
been crushed but for you."^^ 

And the rain will spoil it yet unless you will take my 
umbrella,^^ he said, as a flurry of rain dashed into our 
faces. The rain is not good for make-believe poppies, 
however much it may freshen real ones.^^ 

He had put up his umbrella, and was offering it to me 
as he spoke. 

I can^t deprive you of your umbrella,^^ I said. You 
have a new hat to spoil as well as 

Will you let me hold it over us both, then, until you 
get home?^^ 

I had been taught not to accept any attentions from a 
strange man in the streets, but this little kindness was 
offered so simply and respectfully and with such a win- 
ning grace! Moreover, the rain was dashing into my face.- 
I forgot all prudent teachings. I accepted the umbrella 
and the company of its owner with a flurried Thank 
you,^"' and he stepped to my side and walked with me 
down Seventeenth Street, shielding me from the rain with 
utter disregard of himself. 

The spring shower was over before we reached the lodg- 
ing-house. It had only freshened the sidewalks, and the 
few sharp flashes of lightning had filled the atmosphere 
with electricity. 1 felt it tingling in my veins, as we 
walked along, and glowing in my cheeks. 

We chatted in friendly fashion as we went. I found he 
was from the South like myself, from the same state; that 


10 


MT ow]sr siiq-. 


he knew several of my relations, some of them distin- 
guished. 1 found that his father had been Judge Old- 
ridge, an eminent jurist in his native state, and a friend of 
my father. 

This was a good deal for two who were strangers to learn 
about each other during a short walk in the rain. It came 
about through my dropping my hand-bag, and his picking 
it up and reading my name, that I had embroidered on the 
brown satin back in red silk letters. 

Hilda Monteagle,^^ he read. What an uncommon 
name. I never knew but one family who bore the name 
of Monteagle, and that was in the South. Warren Mont- 
eagle, I have heard, was called the silver-tongued orator 
of my native state — Mississippi.*^^ 

“ Warren Monteagle was my father,^^ I said, proudly, 
and I forgot for a moment that I was Miss Nipper^s sew- 
ing-girl, and that the rain was likely to spot the only new 
dress I could hope for this spring. 

Your father! Then we are no longer strangers, he 
exclaimed, his eyes kindling as he looked at me, ‘^for 
Warren Monteagle was the friend of my father — Judge 
Stanley Oldridge.*^^ 

Oh, I am so glad!^^ I exclaimed, impulsively, then 
felt myself blushing, for he gave me a beaming look, and 
answered quickly: 

So am L I shall bless this sudden April storm and 
the impudent wind that blew off the pretty hat. There is 
a fate in all things, even in the winds that seem to blow 
where they list, as the Good Book tells us. I knew you 
must be a southerner. You have the eye and the voice that 
belong to the South, the proud little poise of the head, and 
the step, as though you were treading ancestral halls. 

^‘Alas! for the ancestral halls, 1 answered, with a 
laugh that was not very mirthful. We fallen princesses 
put up with the narrow, dingy halls of lodging-houses, 
smelling of boiling cabbage instead of magnolia blossoms. 


MY OWN SIN. 


11 


But the scent of the magnolia blossoms seems to hang 
round you still/^ he answered, looking at me again. 
‘‘ And nearly all of you southern girls in New York are 
engaged in rebuilding your fallen fortunes by your good 
gifts of brain and skill. You now — I can tell you what 
you are doiijg here. Your vocation is art. Is it not so?^^ 

I hesitated an iiistant. Then I threw up my head and 
answered, with a little defiant bitterness: 

Yes, my vocation is art, but it does not happen to be 
the art that reproduces nature or beautiful dreams and 
fancies upon canvas; it is the art that makes gowns for 
fine ladies to wear. I am a sewing-girl in a dress-maker^s 
shop. 

He gave me such a look— so full of sympathy and kindly 
interest! He seemed to lean closer to me as he said: 

I am sure you ennoble your vocation. And Oscar 
Wilde has told us that dress-making is one of the fine arts. 
I feel confident that you will find something more con- 
genial to you in time. Your face assures me of this. 
Your eyes and your brow bespeak ambition, your mouth 
and chin energy and resolution. You see 1 am a physiog- 
nomist. We all are in some degree. 

We had reached the door of the lodgingrhouse. 

Will you come in and speak to my mother?^ ^ I asked. 

She will be glad to see the son of my father^s friend. 

Not now. I will come soon to pay my respects to her 
— some evening or some Sunday. I am busy all the work- 
da}’s of the week. I am a book-keeper in my uncle’s 
down-town establishment. The work is not much more 
congenial than your dress-making; but we can not have 
everything our way in this world.” 

Little Nell had answered my touch on the bell that 
marked our rooms in the fourth story. She opened the 
door of the hall, her blue eyes dancing with pleasure, as 
they always did, to see me, but the sight of the falling 
drops clouded her little face. 


12 


MY OWIT SIK. 


“ Oh, ifc^s raining! Fm so Afraid it will be raining Sun- 
day, so we can^t go to the park and give the big monkey 
at the Zoo the pea-nuts I\e been saving for him,^^ she said. 

Oh, it is only an April shower, Gerald said, reassur- 
ing her. It will be bright enough by day after to-mor- 
row, and if you will only let me come and go with you to 
the park, you shall have a box of candy for the monkey. 
You should see him crunch sugar-plums!^^ 

“ 1 should love to,^^ cried Nell; and you may go with 
us, I^m sure. Mayn’t he, Hilda?” 

1 said yes, my heart throbbing with the pleasure of an- 
ticipation, and Gerald Oldridge bade us good-bye, shaking 
hands with me as we stood on the stoop, and kissing Nell, 
who told me gravely afterward that he was a nice young 
man, and ‘^kissed sweet.” “His mustaf don’t tickle a 
bit,” she said. “It’s soft, like your bangs, Hilda. It’s 
not §tiff, like old Mr. Botty’s, the baker. He kisses me 
when I go for the bread, and his beard sticks my chin like 
pins. ” 

“ You are beginning quite early to know about gentle- 
men’s mustaches, my little miss,” I said, gayly, as I ran 
upstairs. “You are not six until next Week. Monday 
week is your birthday, and to-day is mine, and I have had 
no party, but I have had a present. ” 

“ Yes, I gave you a pin-cushion, made outer my dollie’s 
red velvet bonnet. I made it myself,” said Nell. 

“ So you did, darling,” I answered, remorsefully, for I 
had not thought of her poor little pin-cushion. I was 
thinking of the bunch of roses and valley lilies Gerald Old- 
ridge had bought from an itinerant flower peddler at the 
street corner and given to me. I would keep them always, 
I said to myself. I have them now — withered treasures — 
dead, like so many of my girlish hopes. 

He came Sunday afternoon, soon after lunch, and took 
us to the park — little Nell and me. Mother could not yet 
walk enough to go, but Gerald brought her a new maga- 


MY OWN SIN. 


13 


zine, and she was happy to see our happiness in the antici- 
pated pleasure of the walk and the sight-seeing on this 
balmy spring day. 

She found Gerald the image of his mother/^ whom she 
had known in her girlhood. A beautiful woman, she 
said. I could well believe it, for surely there never were 
such eyes — gray-blue with a dash of lion-like yellow in 
their depths — and never such a perfectly molded mouth 
and chin as belonged to this son, who was said to resemble 
her so. 

What a perfect afternoon we had. First, a drive around 
the principal parts of the park, then walking along the 
winding paths, peering into the grotto, and the summer- 
houses, and all the other nooks and by-ways, a visit to the 
Zoo, and a little lunch, sitting on the rocks — a lunch that 
Gerald^s thoughtfulness had provided. Nell was so tired 
when we came back he had to carry her in his arms for a 
block after we left the cars. She declared she had never 
had such a good time. And I — ^^oh, I knew I had never 
been so happy! 

After that he came often — two evenings at least during 
the week, and always on Sunday, all summer long. Oh, 
that summer! My heart arches to-day as it echoes the 
words of the plaintive pansy song: 

“ The fairest, sweetest summer that ever I have known.*' 

1 was deliriously happy all the time, though we had to 
work hard in the shop, and sew from morning till night, 
making the cr^pe ball-dresses, the China silk tea-gowns, 
the braided yachting costumes, the coquettish tennis-suits, 
and white and scarlet bathing-dresses for the fashionable 
ladies who were getting ready for their pleasure and flirt- 
ing campaign at mountain and sea-side resorts. 

They hurried us often with more energy than considera- 
tion. It was getting so hot in the city, everybody was 
going. There would soon not be a soul left in town. 


14 


MY OWM sm. 


Do, Miss Nipper, make those girls of yours hurry up. I 
must have another matinee; yes, and a blue tulle balhdress 
to match my pearl and turquois set. It seems to me you 
are doing everything for Mrs. Van Kipp. What does she 
want with all those dresses? and so ridiculously dkoleite, 
and she a married woman — forty if she^s a day. 

I smiled as I stitched up the side seams of Mrs. Van 
Kipp^'s India gown — smiled over the statement that there 
would soon not be a soul left in town. 

Gerald would be here. He was not going away, and the 
Casino would be here, and Coney Island and Long Beach 
and High Bridge and the park. What cared 1 for New- 
port and the Adirondacks? 

I had a passion for pretty things, and I would have liked 
to have had a China silk gown — a cream ground sprinkled 
with clusters of blue hyacinths or red geraniums — but my 
gingham and muslin dresses were becoming, and my straw 
hat was newly trimmed with black lace and crushed roses. 
I wore them when I went with Gerald to the Casino to hear 
the light, rippling music or sit on the roof in the moon- 
light, and on little Sunday or Saturday afternoon excur- 
sions to the various beaches or to the park or High Bridge, 
usually accompanied by Nell and sometimes by mamma, 
but occasionally just our two selves. 

How sweet it all was! I never thought of envying the 
rich girls who were dancing and yachting and flitting from 
one summer resort to another. I had envied them last 
year, but now it was bliss enough to me to go with Gerald 
over the cool, green water to Manhattan or Brighton 
Beach, to stroll by the ‘‘many-sounding sea,^^ looking at 
the streams of peoj)le, or to sit on the breezy piazzas, 
lunching under striped awnings while the band played gay 
airs from Italian operas, and the waves broke in diamond 
spray on the sands. 

It was quieter in the park or at High Bridge. Work 
was dull as the summer advanced, and I got off early. 


MY OWN SIN. 


15 


Gerald and I would take the elevated cars for a little trip 
to the park to see the sun set from the bridge that spans 
the arm of water in which is the tiny Svvaii’s-nest Island. 

The female swan was setting. We would hang over the 
railing to watch her stately greeting of her husband, who, 
after he was tired of swimming and diving his long neck 
in the water to get at once a cool dip and a mouthful of 
food, would sail slowly up to the island, mount itsj’ocks 
with clumsy splay feet, and pluck his wife gently ofiE the 
nest, taking her place while she went for her evening exer- 
cise and her supper. 

A model husband, Gerald would say, with his mel- 
low laugh. ‘‘ We bachelors should come here for a con- 
jugal lesson. 

I can not bear now to look at that bridge and the swan 
island, nor yet at the little vine-covered pavilion at Har- 
lem, where we used to sit sometimes and eat an ice and 
drink a tiny cup of coffee on Sunday afternoons, amusing 
ourselves by watching the quiet enjoyment of the various 
family parties seated at the little tables, and the coquetting 
and love-making of the girls and their beaus. 

One afternoop, I remember, there came a sudden shower 
like the one in the midst of which we had first seen each 
other. The cool, sweet drops pattered through the grape- 
vines and wet the puffed sleevea-of my pretty gown of pale 
primrose-yellow veiling. Gerald was worried because of 
the faint stains the rain-drops left. I have that little dress 
now, packed with other souvenirs of that blissful time. 
Other drops than those of the summer rain have stained it 
since then; my hot tears have fallen upon it, as I remem- 
bered how happy I was. 

A sorrow’s crown of sorrow 
Is remembering happier things.'* 




16 


MT OWN SIN. 


CHAPTER III. 

The summer was drawing to a close. The leaves were 
reddening on the sumac and maple-trees in the park. The 
air in the late afternoons was growing crisp. The fashion- 
ables were beginning to return from the sea-shore, the 
Catskills and the White Mountains. 

We saw some of them in dashing equipages and on 
horseback in the park as Gerald and I walked there in the 
hazy sunshine of the September afternoon — a sunshine 
eclipsed at intervals by a shadow that crept dreamily over 
the landscape, seeming to presage the blight and chilliness 
of coming winter. 

Such a vague, prophetic shadow came over my own hap- 
piness that afternoon. We had been walking a long time, 
and had seated ourselves on one of the way-side settees to 
rest. 

We were silent, feeling the tender melancholy that hung 
in the air and sounded in the thin, plaintive pipe of the 
grasshopper in the weeds behind us. 

A leaf from the tree overhead fell at my feet like a 
wounded bird with blood-spots on its yellow wings. 1 
picked it up. 

‘‘ It is a token that the summer is going, I said — “ the 
summer that has been so sweet. 

I glanced at a little sprig of golden rod I held, and quot- 
ed a verse from a poem we had read together: 

“ The golden rod is a-bloom, 

Our dream must soon be over, 

It will find with the summer its tomb— 

Is it not best so, my lover? 

Born of the summer’s sweet— 

A fitful, passionate fever; 

Let it go with her swallows fleet. 

And be Memory no retriever/’ 


MY OWN" siisr. 


17 


Summer may go, but true love is not a rover/^ he 
said, looking at me tenderly. His hand closed over mine 
that held the flowers. He had never told me in so many 
words that he loved me, but I could not doubt the lan- 
guage of his eyes, and the caressing tones of his voice, and 
the many tokens he had given of his interest in me. 

At this moment a handsome landau, drawn by a pair of 
glossy bay horses, turned the curve of the drive. Three 
ladies occupied the carriage — one elderly, the others 
young. They were richly and stylishly dressed. As they 
were passing us, a fan dropped from the lap of one of 
them, and the carriage was stopped until the footman 
could pick it up. One of the young ladies bowed to Ger- 
ald, who rose and lifted his hat; then the elder lady put up 
her lorgnette and looked first at Gerald and then at me. 
The glance she gave me was keen, contemptuous, suspi- 
cious; then her eyes went back to Gerald significantly, and 
she bowed stiffly to him. 

I looked at him as the carriage drove away, and saw a 
flush and a look of annoyance on his face. The thought 
came into my mind: 

These are some of his fashionable friends. They are 
surprised to see him with a girl who is not of their set — a 
girl in a cashmere gown and a bonnet not made by a 
French milliner. 

For the first time a sense of the difference in Gerald^s 
social position and my own came to me — came with a 
sting. I knew that he moved in circles to which I could 
not have admittance. He was known as the nephew and 
probably the future partner of a man reputed to be rich, 
who lived in excellent style on a fashionable street, and 
whose wife was a member of Grace Church, a patroness of 
fashionable charities, who went out a great deal, and en- 
tertained handsomely at her own home. 

Gerald^s salary, though far from large, enabled him to 
dress well, and his fine face, tall, graceful figure and easy 


18 


MT OWiT Sra. 


manners made him sought after in society, where young 
men of fine appearance command a premium. He was in- 
vited everywhere, though he rarely went, unless when his 
aunt pressed him into service as an escort. 

Several times he had called to see us in evening-dress, 
saying he must go later with his aunt to a ball or a/recep- 
tion. He seemed so reluctant to leave our society and 
plain little room for the festive company and brilliant 
pleasure halls that I had felt no twinge of jealousy, and 
admired him in his elegant dress as light-heartedly as Nell 
herself. 

Now, for the first time, I realized the difference between 
our social positions. 1 was his equal in birth and refine- 
ment, yet I stood on a lower social plane. The look of 
surprise and disdain in the eyes of those young women, the 
bridling of their chaperones long neck, and her virtuously 
scornful glance at me and stiff bow to Gerald told me all 
in a flash. The looks of the young buds said plainly: I 
wonder what Gerald Oldridge is doing with that girlP^^ 
The motheres glance said: “ She is no better than she 
ought to be, of course, and it’s pretty bold in him to let 
himself be seen with her in this public way.^^ 

I felt my cheeks flaming. I turned to Gerald and 
asked abruptly: 

Are you ashamed of me?^^ 

‘^Ashamed of you? Surely not. 1 am proud of you, 
Hilda. ^Yhy did you ask such a question 

Because I saw you blush when your fine friends looked 
at us. 

If I blushed it was not for you, but for their rudeness. 
Good breeding -iind money do not always go together. 
And they are not friends of mine, only acquaintances. 
DonT think about them any more."'^ 

But the wound still smarted, and 1 said after awhile, 
with a bitter little laugh: 

You can tell them 1 am only your summer girl, taken 




MT OWN SIN. 19 

up for pastime while they are away. I don^t want you to 
lose caste on my account. 

A pained look came into his eyes. 

‘^Hilda/^ he said, gravely, “is that remark just to 
me?^^ 

“ I was jesting — partly, I answered. 

“ I don^t like a jest upon such a subject, and I felt the 
under-tone of bitterness in what you said. I know you do 
not believe that my friendship for you has been a mere 
summer pastime, do you?^^ 

“ How can I tell?^^ I managed to say. My voice trem- 
bled, for the tears were close under my dropped lids. 

“ Hilda, you surely know that my attentions to you 
have been respectful and earnest — that I esteem you — love 
you. Yes; 1 love you, Hilda, as a man loves the woman 
he wants for his wife.^^ 

A thrill of happiness ran through me at his words. 
They had the ring of truth and tenderness. Down fell a 
big tear from my dropped lashes— splash it fell upon Ger- 
ald ^s hand. 

“ Hilda — his voice was tender, but it had a troubled 
tone; I raised my eyes: his own were clouded — “ Hilda, 
I am afraid I ought not to have spoken as I did just now. 
1 am afraid I have done wrong in being so much in com- 
pany this summer. You have become too dear to me for 
us to part, and 1 have — it may be — become more than a 
friend to you. And it was not right for me to become this 
unless I could offer to make you my wife at once. And I 
can not do this, Hilda. 

“It is the social barrier,^^ 1 said, drawing away from 
him, my eyes flashing through the tears. 

“ Hilda, darling, it is not the social barrier. It is mere- 
ly the barrier of prudence and forethought. Listen to me. 
You have more common sense than any girl I know. I 
will tell you my position exactly, and you shall decide what 
is best. 1 owe my education, my support for years, to my 


20 


MY OWN SIN, 


uncle. My father was generous and extravagant. His 
estate hardly sufficed to pay his debts. My uncle sent me 
to college. My inclinations pointed to my father^s profes- 
sion — the law; but gratitude to my uncle made me yield to 
his wishes and take a commercial course. He wanted me 
to enter the counting-room of his manufacturing house. 

After I graduated he gave me a place in his establishment 
as assistant book-keeper. The salary is small. My uncle 
is neither a generous nor a rich man — not nearly as rich as 
he is believed to be. His business at this moment is a lit- 
tle shaky, and he needs more capital to put it on a firm 
basis. I am telling you tales out of school, Hilda — ^^busi- 
ness secrets — butT must let you know, that you may under- 
stand my position. 1 am living with my uncle. My salary 
would not support me if I boarded elsewhere. What he 
expects of me — what he urges me to do — is to marry a 
rich woman, put her money into his business, and become 
his partner. 

Is there any particular rich woman he wishes you to 
marry I asked, controlling my voice as well as I could. 

“ Yes; the particular rich woman has already been 
chosen. She was chosen, in fact, long ago by my father 
and her mother. She is the niece of my nucleus wife. I 
knew her as a child. Her mother lived near us, and this 
girl — six years younger than I — was her only child. I 
think my father and her mother had loved each other ‘ 
in their youth and been estranged by a misunderstand- 
ing. They were very tenderly attached to each other after f 

they became widowed, but they did not marry. They j 

were anxious, however, that their children should marry. ^ 

I was taught to look on the girl as my future wife. My 
father always called her ‘Jerry’s little wife ^ when he 1 

spoke to her or of her. There was a double tie, for my 
uncle had married her mother^s sister. My uncle knew 
and highly approved of this boy and girl engagement. 1 
think he had it in view, with its money advantages, when 



MY OWK SIK. 


21 


be was so liberal to me in the way of education. He ex- 
pected that her money would one day build up his busi- 
ness. 

And the girl — she is here?^^ 

No, she is in Florida. I have not seen her for several 
years, not since she was twelve years old — she is now seven- 
teen. Her health was always delicate — it is now so bad 
that she is believed to be doomed. Her physician ordered 
her to go to Florida. Her father died of consumption, and 
it is believed that it has fallen upon her as a heritage. 

Did — you — love — herr^^ 

I was attached to her when we were children. We 
were often together. She was always put in my charge by 
her mother, and I took care of her. She. was very fond of 
me, and would go with me everywhere over the planta- 
tion. She rode behind me on my horse until she could 
manage a pony herself. She trudged after me when I 
went partridge or squirrel hunting, and I have often had 
to carry her in my arms. I taught her to read and write, 
to ride and to play croquet and draughts. Indeed, as she 
was too delicate to go to school, she was given up a great 
deal to me while I stayed at home with my tutor until my 
father died and the old place and all my possessions were 
sold.^^ 

You love her, then?^^ 

Love her! — a little, sallow, sickly child? I was sorry 
for her — attached to her as to a young sister. I never 
loved any woman until I knew you, Hilda, my darling. 

He pressed my hand under my shawl. I was silent for 
a moment, then I said: 

But surely your uncle does not expect you to marry 
her, now that she has consumption, and is not expected to 
get well?'^ 

He is more eager for it than ever — both he and his 
wife. They have been away, as you know, for two 
months. They came back only last night. They have 


22 


MY OWN SIN. 


seen Elsie while they were away. She was with them at 
the springs in Virginia. She is under the charge of an old 
lady — a distant relation. My aunt said that already — and 
though she was in such wretched health — Elsie was an ob- 
ject of attraction — as an heiress. Her physician was over- 
attentive, she thought. She urged me to go to Florida and 
marry her at once.'’^ 

“ You are really engaged to her, then?^^ 

‘‘No; there has been no formal engagement since we 
were children. But it is tacitly understood that we are to 
marry when she is eighteen. She writes me a letter every 
week — a child-like, confiding letter, such as a sister might 
write to a brother, and I reply in brotherly fashion. Not 
a word of love or marriage. 

Again there was silence. The sunset was fading in the 
west — dusk was gathering about us. The drive was almost 
deserted, and we were the only ones left sitting on the 
benches. I was wondering why Gerald did not at once 
tell his uncle that he could not marry the girl who had 
been half-way betrothed to him from their childhood, why 
he did not let her know that he could not keep this child- 
ish pledge. This would be the most straightforward and 
honorable course, though it is true there were obstacles in 
the way of such a direct avowal. Gerald must have 
divined my thoughts, for he said : 

“ You are thinking that it would be more manly and 
more just to Elsie to tell her and tell my uncle that I 
could not marry her. But remember how unsettled and 
uncertain everything is. It seemed to me that active 
measures were not needed yet. Time might set things 
straight. Elsie might in all probability die before her 
eighteenth birthday, the sixth of next May, or I might 
put oft the marriage until next fall, and she would hardly 
live so long. You see, my darling, I am not yet in a posi- 
tion to defy my uncle’s wishes. I have been for some time 
studying law, under an able jurist here, a friend of my 


MY OWK SIM. 


^3 


father^s. My father helped him with money and influence 
when he was struggling to rise. He is grateful, ~and he 
will help me. As soon as I am admitted to the bar he will 
take me into partnership, and I shall then feel at liberty 
to ask my Hilda to be my darling little wife.^^ 

And you will never marry Elsie?^^ 

Never. I doii^t think I could have married her even 
if I had not met you. It seems too mercenary an act now 
that she is in a hopeless decline. If indeed she loves me so 
much that her happiness depends on me, as my aunt de- 
clares, I might have married her and tried to make the 
short remnant of her life as bright as possible, but I can^t 
think she cares for me so deeply. She was too young when 
we parted. My aunt says she has cherished a romantic devo- 
tion for me — that all my little boyish keepsakes are treasured 
in her trunk, that she hangs over my picture rapturously 
and kisses it good-night after she has said her prayers. 
My aunt told me all this last evening. It made me feel 
very badly. If it is true, I ought to write at once and let 
Elsie know my real feelings. But my aunt^s imagination 
may be influenced by the thought of Elsie’s fortune — the 
four hundred thousand that she hopes may help to bolster 
her husband’s business some day. I must undeceive them. 
It is wrong to postpone it any longer, only, as I have told 
you, nothing was settled. I thought it probable until I 
knew and loved you that I would marry Elsie. 1 remem- 
bered her as an amiable, affectionate child — my father’s 
favorite. He had set his heart on our marriage. He be- 
trothed us solemnly when I was sixteen and she ten years 
old. He made us kneel by his bed, and he joined our 
hands and blessed us. Her mother did the same thing a 
year or two later. No wonder that such a solemn cere- 
mony impressed Elsie’s childish imagination, and that 
she thinks it is binding. I felt it so a long while, but 
marriage is too sacred an obligation, too important a 
thing to be entered u23on only because of a promise given 


24 


MT OWN SIN. 


before the years of discretion. Since I have known you 
I have felfc what love and marriage really mean, and 1 
feel I ought to tell my uncle and tell Elsie, or let him do 
it, that 1 can not marry her. Do you not think so?^^ 

I hesitated. 1 could see he wished to temporize — to 
postpone this declaration, hoping that time would set 
things right — that Elsie’s death or her falling in love with 
some one else — her physician, perhaps — invalids usually 
worship their doctors — would preclude the necessity for 
telling his uncle what would surely make an immediate 
rupture between them. 

I knew which was the manliest and most honorable 
course; but I felt, too, that there was a weak strain in the 
character of the man I loved, amiable and noble as 1 knew 
him to be, and I loved him so well that I sympathized with 
this weakness. I wanted to spare him any pain and anx- 
iety. It would be bad for him to be thrown out of busi- 
ness and out of home with the stigma of his uncle’s dis- 
pleasure upon him. So, when I spoke, it was to advise 
him to do nothing just yet; there would be no harm in 
waiting. 

It was fatal advice. 

I felt a misgiving that it was the moment the words had 
passed my lips. 

When is this Elsie coming?” 1 asked. 

In April — seven months from now. Many things may 
happen in seven months. ” 

‘‘ And she has so much money — four hundred thousand, 
did you say?” 

‘‘ She has that much in bonds and stocks alone, besides 
her landed estates. The fortune came through her grand- 
mother on her father’s side. It will go, every penny, to a 
relative that she does not care for, if she dies before she is 
married; if she marries first, it passes to her husband. 
Such is the will.” 


MY OWK SIK. 25 

Pour hundred thousand in money alone! What a 
large sum that seems to poor me!^^ 

If only a tenth or a twentieth of it were mine, we 
would be married to-morrow — that is, if you would have 
me. Hilda, do you know you have not said you would? 
Do you know you have not even said you loved me? Do 
you love me, dear one? Tell me.'^^ 

You know that I love you,^^ I answered. 

All my being thrilled as he leaned nearer and his breath 
touched my cheek. He drew me to him— there was no 
one in sight, and the friendly shadows veiled us — our lips 
met in the long, burning kiss of young love. His arms 
were about me, and our hearts beat together in quick 
throbs of passion. 

That kiss — that embrace should never have passed be- 
tween us while there was a barrier to our marriage. 
When two beings are young and full of ardent emotions, 
and heart is seeking heart while yet a union is impossible, 
it is daring fate to allow the barriers of reserve to be 
broken down even by a kiss. It seems a simple thing, 
but it is too often the spark that explodes the best built 
schemes of prudence and reason. 


CHAPTEK IV. 

/ 

I, at least, was never the same after that evening in the 
park. A spirit of unrest took possession of me. Discon- 
tent was born in my breast, succeeded by bitterness and 
envy. 

Wlien Gerald looked in upon us now on his way to a re- 
ception or a ball, I did not wish him a happy evening with 
the old light-hearted jollity. He was goiug where I could 
not go — where he would meet women in those graceful, 
picturesque costumes and rich jewels I could not wear. 
He would see them more bewitching from their beautiful 
environment of satin and mirror-paneled walls, flowers. 


26 


MY OWN SIN. 


music, rose-shaded lights, making their fairness yet more 
ravishing. 

1 pictured to myself Gerald whirling in the waltz, with 
one of these fair, fortunate ones in his arms, her white 
hand, sparkling with diamonds, resting on his shoulder, her 
eyes looking up into his. 

Then, with this picture in my mind, 1 looked across the 
little room at my own reflection in -the small dressing-case 
mirror. How insignificant seemed my figure in the plain, 
brown cashmere and linen collar befitting one of Miss 
Nipper^s young women, and how common I must seem to 
Gerald compared to the women he met in the circle he was 
privileged to move in! 

What^s the matter, sister? What makes you look so 
cross? You havenT smelled the roses Jerry brought 
you,^^ little Nell would say. 

I buried my face among the red roses to hide from her 
keen little eyes the shadow of the pain that filled my breast 
— a jealous, envious pain that could only be eased by Ger- 
ald^s kisses and his impassioned avowal that he cared noth- 
ing for the fair women he met in society — that his little 
girl in her brown cashmere was a hundred times sweeter 
and dearer. 

If this is true you would be eager to marry me at any 
cost,^’ 1 said one night, as we sat by the smoldering coals 
alone in the little sitting-room. Mother had taken Netrto 
bed, and fallen asleep beside her while she was telling her 
the story of Princess Rosamond and the King of the Pea- 
cocks. 

His arm relaxed its clasp of my waist, as he said, re- 
proachfully: 

“ Hilda, you forget it was you who decided it would be 
unwise for us to marry now. It was you who reminded 
me that my uncle would be angry, and that I was as yet 
dependent on his favor, and that even if I kept my place 
with him, my salary would not be enough to support us 


MY OWN SIN. 




fonr upon. My wife could not continue to be a dress-fitter 
in Miss Nipper^s shop. It was you who said that. You 
were anxious for me to keep my social position; you re- 
minded me that this would be of great advantage to me 
when 1 came to practice law. You talked all over with 
me in a business-like/ yet sweet and womanly way, and 
filled me with wonder. You said we loved and trusted 
each other so entirely we could afford to wait a year or 
two.^^ 

I knew it. I knew I had said just those things, used 
just those arguments. I had seen that for him to marry 
at this stage of his career would be fatal to his prospects 
for the future, and 1 had said that we must and could 
“ bide a wee — had said it cheerfully and confidently at 
the time. But now the demon of jealousy and doubt had 
entered my breast. My hold upon Gerald seemed uncer- 
tain. He belonged to another sphere of life. The truth 
was that I felt in my heart a consciousness that my lover ^s 
character, sweet and noble as it was, had one defect. He 
was wanting in strength of will. His weakness of purpose 
had been revealed to me by the way he had borne himself 
in the matter of his relation to that invalid heiress. His 
action had not been straightforward to her or to his uncle. 
He had temporized^, postponed the decisive declaration that 
he could not marry her. Partly this was from necessary 
policy, but more from weakness of will. 

And might not this same weakness lead him to yield at 
last to his uncle ^s and aunt^s strong desire to marry the 
girl he was in a manner bound to? Might not their influ- 
ence or some other draw him away from me? And I could 
not give him up. His love, his companionship had grown 
dearer to me every day. They made the sole happiness of 
my narrow life. How could I live if I lost him? 

1 leaned nearer to him. I laid my head against his 
shoulder, whispering: 

“ I did say all those things, dear Jerry. I have not for- 


28 


MY OWK SI]Sr. 


gotten. 1 did mark out that path of wisdom and pru- 
dence, but I did not take the weakness of my own heart 
into consideration. I forgot that there was a dash of 
Spanish blood in my veins, and. that I would feel the pain 
of jealousy. 

He laughed at me, and soothed me then, but the next 
Sunday I went to the fashionable church he attended, and 
saw him sitting in a pew with his aunt and a handsome 
and richly dressed young woman. They sat together, and 
used the same prayer-book, and her eyes turned to him 
often during the sermon. I watched them behind my veil, 
unobserved, until it was impossible to sit quietly and listen 
to the intoning of the calm-voiced minister any longer. I 
rose and went out. Gerald did not know until then that I 
was in the church. 

He came that evening. I received him coldly. 

“ How could you tear yourself away from the young 
lady you were so devoted to?’^ I asked. 

‘‘ I was not devoted to her. She was my aunt^s guest. 
And you are your aunt^s slave — her lackey; yon must 
dance attendance on her and do her bidding,^^ 1 broke in, 
bitterly; then, feeling I had said an unjust thing, I burst 
into tears. 

Gerald took my hand and tried to draw me to him, but 
I resisted. 

“ Go,^^ I said. DonT worry any more with me. Find 
a sweetheart in your own set — one who has not a bitter, 
jealous temper — one you can marry and be happy with.^^ 

I will marry no one but you, Hilda, he said, with 
tender sadness. I think it would be better if we mar- 
ried without delay. Nothing but marriage will give you 
confidence in me. I will speak to your mother about it at 
once. I can get a situation as salesman in a retail store. 
We can make out to live some way. I will give up my 
law study, and get some writing to do at night. 

There is no need of this,^^ I said, voicing a thought 


MY OWK SIN. 


29 


that had come to me before. The marriage could be — 
secret. No one need know it — only my mother. I could 
continue at my work, and you at yours with your uncle. 

His eyes lighted eagerly as he listened to me. Then 
they clouded. 

A secret marriage!^^ he said. Dear, is it right, do 
you think? Would your mother approve it?^^ 

‘‘ I could soon reconcile her to the idea. She knows ex- 
actly how we are situated. Buf if you have any hesita- 
tion — 

Hilda darling, I only hesitate for your sake. I love 
you so well I do not want to do anything that might some 
time put you in a false position. But the marriage could 
be publicly avowed whenever we liked — whenever it be- 
came expedient. And it would prove to you that your 
doubts are groundless — that I care only for you. Yes, my 
dearest, we will be married without delay — secretly, if you 
think best. Let us talk to your mother about it.^^ 

My mother had grown to depend almost entirely on my 
judgment, and to believe that I was wiser in all practical 
matters than she. So it was not hard to gain her consent 
to the secret marriage. One week from that day we took 
a little trip out of town, and when I returned I was Gerald 
Oldridge’s wife. 


CHAPTEE V. 

For one month I was the happiest mortal on earth. 

It was midwinter; snow covered the ground, and the 
winds were often keen and biting, but it was summer in 
my heart. I went to my daily work with a buoyant step. 
I no longer envied the young women whose gowns I fitted. 
They might have fine clothes, elegant carriages and homes, 
but they did not have Gerald. And there was no other 
like him. There was no other such tender, loyal, gener- 
ous heart as my Jerry ^s. 


30 


MY OWN SIM. 


Jealous fears no longer tortured me. Gerald came 
every evening, sometimes only for an hour, but usually he 
spent the entire evening in our little room, talking to us, 
or listening to me read aloud, or sing^to the accompani- 
ment of my guitar. 

Sometimes we two went out to the theater or the opera, 
getting seats in the balcony, where there was no danger of 
meeting Gerald ^s aristocratic friends and kinsfolk. With 
a good opera-glass and our strong young eyes and ears we 
enjoyed the acting and the music as well in our lofty perch 
as though we had had a seat in the curtained boxes whose 
snowy-armed and jeweled occupants we looked at and com- 
mented on from afar. 

Gerald’s aunt had an attack of rheumatism which kept 
her in-doors and relieved him from the necessity of acting 
as her attendant to places of social amusement. He could 
give his evenings to us, could bring his law-books and 
study while I sewed or practiced my drawing, for I had be- 
gun to take lessons in that art. 

My mother and Nellie were almost as fond of Jerry 
as I was. He was so kind and thoughtful and merry. 
He never forgot to bring them something — flowers or 
fruit, a picture-book, or a magazine, a box of candy, or 
some little household convenience. Poor fellow! he was 
more generous than wise. He surprised us one day by 
having a load of nice furniture, with carpets and curtains, 
sent up to our rooms, fitting them out new and comforta- 
bly, even to the kitchen. Then he gave my mother a 
black silk dress, and replenished my wardrobe with pretty 
gowns, chosen with excellent taste. 

I remonstrated with him for his extravagance. He an- 
swered that it was his savings from his salary, and that 
they could not be better spent. It seemed so then, for we 
could not foresee what would happen. 

For alas! dark days followed these bright ones. My 
mother was taken very ill with pneumonia. For weeks 


MY OWK SIK. 


81 


her life hung in the balance. I was obliged to give up my 
place at Miss Nipper^s to stay at home and nurse her. 
The expenses of our household all fell upon Gerald — rent, 
the hire of a servant — for 1 could not leave my mother^s 
bedside — food, fuel, physician’s services and medicine — all 
came out of his salary, for what he had saved had been 
spent before this emergency was upon us. 

He borrowed money — there was no other alternative — 
and thus saddled himself with debt. He was harassed, 
anxious — I could see it — and I could not help him — could 
not spare time from my mother and Nellie to soothe or 
amuse him. 

At last my mother was better — was able to sit up — and 
when I could leave her 1 went to try to regain my old place 
at Miss Nipper’s. But I could not get it for several weeks, 
not until the busy season of early spring opened and there 
was a rush for Easter dresses. Now it was the dull, in- 
termediate time. 

I chafed 'at the enforced idleness. I wanted to earn 
money to help Gerald with the burden of support for us 
three. I saw the anxious cloud on his brow. I fancied 
that he regretted his marriage. I reproached myself with 
having caused him to take the step. 

I got some decorative work to do, but the pay was small, 
and the work was done at home, where I could sit all day, 
my fingers moving mechanically while my mind was busy 
with its old bitter thoughts: rebellion against fate, a wild 
wish to be rich, that I might free Gerald from his heavy 
burden, galling to my pride as well as to my love, and 
that I might live with him openly as his wife, inspire him 
to rise to eminence as a lawyer, and take the position in 
society that I felt I was capable of occupying. All this I 
could do, I felt sure, if I had money. 

When the March winds were blowing, and the press of 
dress-making work had begun, I got back my old place at 
Miss Nipper’s. 1 worked faithfully, but not as cheerfully 


32 


MY OWK SIK. 


as before. The canker of discontent and ambition was 
eating into my heart. I was now a wife, though no one 
knew or guessed it, for I had no intimate friend. No one 
had visited us through the long, cold winter but the doc- 
tor, a Sister of Charity, and once the clergyman of my 
mother^s'church. 

But though still Hilda Monteagle to the world, the re- 
sponsibility of wifehood was upon me. I was married, and 
to a man whose talents and family and social position lifted 
him above the sphere of those around me. All he needed 
was money. Oh! for a few thousands of the gold that 
these women, whose silken skirts I draped, lavished in the 
diamonds that flashed at their delicate ears and upon their 
soft fingers! 

Often have I bared my arm and looked at the blue vein? 
throbbing beneath its snowy skin, and uttered between my 
clinched teeth the mad wish that I could coin half that 
blood, drop by drop, into gold. Freely would I pour it 
out. 

I tried to hide my feelings from Gerald. He was as 
kind and sweet as ever, and as devoted, though now he 
was with us less constantly in the evening, because his aunt 
was well again and going out occasionally and giving en- 
tertainments. 

My old dislike to have Gerald go into society from which 
I was debarred came back to me. I had confidence in his 
love and his fidelity, but 1 fancied it must lower me in his 
esteem to think I could not have admittance to that 
charmed circle. My morbid imagination pictured him as 
surrounded by beautiful, richly dressed women, who could 
admire his fine bearing and handsome face, or be attracted 
by his winning manners and his bright, entertaining talk. 

And all the while I was at my poor lodging-house home 
cleaning up the kitchen, ironing cuffs and collars, hearing 
NelFs lessons, and trying, when all these tasks were done, 
to steal a few minutes for my drawing. 


MY OWK SIK. 


33 


I would sit up late, for often now he would come to me 
at a late hour. I would hear his light step on the shaky 
stairs of the old lodging-house, and presently he would 
enter impetuously, muffled in his furred overcoat, pick me 
up, and shower tingling, frosty kisses on my lips and 
cheeks. 

Then 1 had a hundred questions to ask — where had he 
been? whom had he seen? — and he would give me an ac- 
count of the reception or dancing-party or opera he had 
been attending, declaring he had been bored to death. He 
thought to please me; he little guessed what a rebellious 
longing was in my heart for the time to come when 1 could 
go to these places and be a welcome guest of those whom 
I felt to be only my equals. 

Every woman has a longing for the society of other 
women of congenial tastes. Even the devotion of a man 
whom she loves can not entirely make her forget this crav- 
ing for the countenance and companionship of her own sex. 

Spring was opening. The snow had all melted from the 
streets. The buds were bursting on the trees in the 
sqtmre, and the sparrows were twittering their first notes 
of love-making. One day an old friend in Florida — a 
venerable bachelor cousin — sent my mother a little box of 
strawberries. I immediately wrote a note to Gerald. 
“ Come and take dinner with us this evening. I have a 
treat for you. 

That afternoon, when I left the shop at six o^clock, 1 
found Gerald outside waiting for me. He rarely did this, 
for fear of exciting suspicion, and 1 was surprised to see 
him. 

I came to tell you, Hilda, that I can^t see you this 
evening. I^m so sorry, too. My uncle wishes me to go to 
the depot to meet — some — ladies. 

His hesitating speech and the flush on his cheek made 
me feel at once who these ladies must be. I said: 

‘‘ It is Miss Vaughn, the heiress, you are going to meet.^^ 
2 


34 


MY OWJ^ SIN. 


Yes, ifc is Elsie Vaughn and her companion and nurse. 
You remember she was to come in April. 

“ 1 remember now, but I had forgotten about it. I had 
almost forgotten her existence, you have said so little about 
her.^^ 

I did not think you would care to have me talk about 
her,^^ he said. 

Have you been hearing from her? Have you had let- 
ters from her?^^ 1 asked, quickly. 

She has written occasionally, just as she has done all 
her life. There is her last letter, written just before she 
left Florida. Eead it; it is short. 

I took the letter from its dainty little envelope. It was 
scented with pressed yellow jasmine flowers that fell out of 
it as I unfolded the sheet. It began: 

Deae Geeald — and went on in a child-like, affec- 
tionate strain, sometimes sad, sometimes playful — I am 
coming to that big New York 1 have heard so much about, 
and I want you to show me all the sights, when I am 
strong enough. 1 am not strong enough now, but I think 
it is the warm, enervating Florida climate. The crisp air 
of New York will brace me up — so my aunt writes. She 
has made all kinds of nice plans for me. We are to go to 
Europe the last of May, as you have heard, no doubt. Are 
you not going with us? I sha^nT enjoy it half without 
you. Somehow I feel 1 shall grow strohg when I am with 
you, you are such a strong, big fellow. I remember how 
you used to carry me about in your arms. I thought I 
was all right if I was with you — and poor, dearest mamma 
thought so, too. You could carry me now as easily as you 
did then, I fear, for I am very light. I weigh so little I 
am ashamed to tell the figures. Never mind; I will ^ pick 
up, ’ as my old black mammy says. She is going North 
with me — she and Cousin Priscilla — but Cousin Priscilla 


MT OWK SIN. 35 

goes on to Connecticut to see her people. She is Yankee- 
born, you know. 

The letter rambled on in this naive way. There was not 
a word of love, but an under-tone of affectionate remem- 
brance. 

Is she so frail, I wonder I said. Is her health no 
better?^^ 

No better at all — so her physician writes. He seems 
to regard her as doomed. She does not realize her con- 
dition — she has been sick so long.^^ 

^^And her fortune will all go to a man who neither 
needs it nor has any right to it, beyond a few drops of 
kindred blood?^^ 

Yes.^^ 

‘‘It ought to be yours, Gerald. You ought to have 
married her and had her fortune to help you rise, instead 
of burdening yourself with a poor girl you can^t own as 
your wife,^^ I said, with a rush of bitter feeling. 

“ Hush, Hilda. W^hy will you talk in that way? Do 
you think I would have married a dying girl for her 
money 

“ You had been betrothed to her before she was an in- 
valid. She still considers you are engaged to her. She 
expects you to marry her as soon as she comes. 

“ She will not expect it long. I will soon tell her that 
it can not be. Don^t think about this, Hilda; don^t 
worry about it in the least, my little wife. I must go now; 
I ought to be on my way to the depot. The carriage is 
waiting for me at the corner. 

“ Shall I see you later to-night 

“ I am afraid not. My aunt and uncle will expect me 
to spend this evening at home, helping to entertain the 
new-comers. To-morrow evening I will come without fail. 
Save your strawberry treat until then.^^ 

He pressed my hand and hurried away. I passed a rest- 
less night, an anxious day. I wondered how Elsie Vaughn 


36 


MY OWN SIN. 


looked. Was she really so ill? Oh! if she could only will 
Gerald a little of her money. 

“ How is she? How does she look?^^ 1 asked when he 
came next evening. 

She is as frail as it is possible for any one to be who is 
still sitting up and walking about. Eeally she ought to be 
in bed all the time, but her wish to get well is so strong, 
poor girl! How does she look? She is the picture of 
death. 

A few days later I had an opportunity of verifying this. 
I saw Elsie Vaughn with my own eyes. She came with 
her aunt, Mrs. Horace Oldridge, to be fitted for some 
dresses. Miss Nipper’s establishment was one of the most 
fashionable in the city. It comprised three floors of a 
brown-stone house not a stone’s-throw from Broadway. 
The name on the silver door-plate was not Nipper at all. 
It read Mademoiselle Nepean, Modiste.” Mile. Nepeau 
— slim, stylish, suave — did her best to look as though born 
in Paris instead of Massachusetts, to speak with a pretty 
French accent, and to shrug her shoulders like a thorough 
French woman. To do her justice, she succeeded admira- 
bly, but as no man is a hero to his valet, so no modiste may 
hope to be infallible in the eyes of her young women. 

Mademoiselle Nepean’s ” secret leaked out in the work- 
room, and the girls, talking among themselves, spoke of 
her irreverently as ‘‘Nipper.” But her French accent 
was not questioned by her wealthy patrons. They came 
in their carriages, and waited in her handsomely appointed 
parlor, where there was a grand piano, some good pictures 
on the walls and pretty statuettes in the corners. It was 
in this room that Mrs. Oldridge waited with her niece. 

The names were brought up by the servant to Miss Nip- 
per, who was very busy looking after the unpacking of a 
box of imported novelties. 

“ New customers,” she said. “ They must be attended 
to. I can’t get away from here just now. Go down and 


MY OWM SIM. 


37 


tell them I will see them preesentlie. Miss Montgell/^ she 
said, turning to me. She shortened my name whenever 
she called it, thinking, no doubt, that an assistant fitter 
had no business with such a high-sounding cognomen. 

I started to my feet. I had been tingling with nervous 
excitement ever since I heard the names of the two who 
were waiting in the reception-room. 

Mademoiselle Nepeau, had you not better go down 
yourself?^^ I ventured to say in a low voice. These are 
wealthy people. The young lady is a southern heiress. 
She is going abroad, I have heard, and will want a great 
many dresses. 

Mile. Nepeau looked at me sharply and seemed about to 
say something cross. But she thought better of it, and 
telling me to see that the lace fichus and gauzy neckwear 
were not mussed in unpacking, she shook out the folds of 
her gray serge gown, adjusted her tournure and went 
down-stairs. 

In a few minutes I received a message from her to come 
down prepared to measure a lady who was not strong 
enough to mount the stairs. With fluttering pulses I de- 
scended the broad, easy stairway and drew aside the dra- 
pery from the door of the parlor. I was about to come face 
to face with a woman whom I hoped some day to meet on 
a footing of equality as the wife of her nephew — a rising 
lawyer as he would then be, and I was ^bout to see the 
girl to whom my husband was engaged to be married. 

Two ladies who had entered the hall-door had been 
ushered by the servant into the sitting-room the moment 
before I went in. They were known to Mrs. Oldridge, and 
they were exchanging with her kisses and expressions of 
delight at meeting, so my entrance was unnoticed. I 
glanced at Mrs. Oldridge, seeing, instead of the stately, 
haughty woman 1 had somehow expected to see, a plump 
and pretty matron with a hint of determination, however, 
in her well-shaped chin. 


38 


MY OW^T SIN. 


But my eyes turned from her to the girl who sat in a 
wide easy-chair — half lying on its cushions, her attitude 
full of weakness and weariness, her face leaning on her 
small gloved hand. 

Mrs. Oldridge turned to her presently. Elsie, my 
dear,^^ she said, will you stand up a moment while this 
young woman takes your measure?^ ^ 

She raised her head and I saw her face. All doubt and 
jealousy vanished as I looked at it. To my eyes that face 
bore the unmistakable stamp of death. Surely a corpse 
could not look more bloodless. The very lips were white, 
the skin a ghastly bluish-white, livid shades were under 
the sunken, lack-luster eyes, the hair was dry and dead- 
locking, the temples hollow, the eyelids purple and 
shriveled. 

I have seen many dead faces look more like-life than this 
young girTs. I looked at her with mingled emotions of 
relief and pity. It was a relief to know that there was no 
ground — not the slightest — for any fear that Gerald should 
feel for her a warmer sentiment than compassionate sym- 
pathy. 

She rose to her feet, declining her aunt^s assistance, as 
she said, smiling with wan lips: 

1 am quite rested now. Aunt Marian. 

She was painfully thin. As I measured her, Mrs. Old- 
ridge said to Miss Nipper: 

She must have her dresses padded, mademoiselle, until 
she fills out, as she will after an ocean trip; won^t you, 
dear?^^ 

The girl smiled her little pathetic smile and nodded her 
head. The next minute she looked into the long panel- 
mirror and saw the reflection of her own face side by side 
with mine, as I stood behind her measuring the back of her 
waist. I was taller by several inches than she. I turned 
my head quickly to one side. I fancied the contrast must 
give her pain, but she only said, with her gentle smile: 


MY OWK SIK. 


39 


What would 1 give for roses like those you wear in 
your cheeks. How glad you must he to be so well and 
strong. You have what money can not buy — sweet 
health. 

Her aunt had turned to speak to Miss Nipper, and did 
not hear this sad little speech. I liked Miss Vaughn^s 
voice. It was very sweet, but it had that tired, plaintive, 
invalid tone. Poor girl! I forgot that I had ever been 
jealous of her — forgot that she thought herself engaged to 
my husband. I gave a start when an instant later she 
spoke his name. 

Aunt, was not Gerald to meet us here and drive with 
us to the park?^^ she asked. 

No; he told me afterward he preferred to have us stop 
for him at the Yandel Gallery. If you were not tired he 
wanted you to look at a picture painted by his friend Eiman, 
but I am afraid you will be too tired to get out again and 
look at pictures. 

Oh, no! I feel quite strong, she protested, quickly. 

She had put out her hand involuntarily, and was leaning 
it rather heavily on my arm. She smiled as our eyes met, 
and shook her head a little as though at the inconsistency 
of her words with the action that belied them. I could see 
how she clung to the hope of getting well, how she clung 
to the thought of Gerald. Yet I felt no jealousy, only 
pity. 

They went out, leaving materials for three dresses for 
Miss Vaughn, which the footman had brought from the 
carriage. I looked from the window and saw her being as- 
sisted into the carriage by Mrs. Oldridge and the plump 
footman in plain livery. As the carriage moved off, she 
caught sight of my face at the window and nodded good- 
bye. 

When I turned from the window, the two ladies were 
discussing Miss Vaughn. 

So that is the heiress who is to marry Gerald Old- 


40 


MY OWK SIM. 


ridge?^^ said one. She looks more like the bride of 
death. They would better be measuring her for her 
shroud. They say her aunt is anxious for her marriage 
with young Oldridge; he is her husband^s nephew. I 
think it is a shame to let her marry in her condition, but 
they try to make her believe the sea trip will cure her. 
Doctor Michael told me positively that she could not live 
three months longer. Her lungs are nearly gone. Both he 
and Doctor Lewis saw her soon after she arrived and ex- 
pressed the same opinion of her case to Mr. Oldridge. Of 
course, she was not told of it. They feed her up with 
hopes, but they know better. 

“ Certainly they do. But, yo'u see, if she marries young 
Oldridge, her money goes into the firm. Mr. Oldridge has 
enlarged his business lately, and needs more capital, I sus- 
pect. The girl has nearly half a million in her own right. 
It will be a grand lift for the handsome Jerry. In three 
months he will be a rich widower. It^s an awfully easy 
way to step into half a million of money. He can keep a 
stake in his uncle^s business and turn his attention to the 
law besides. They say he has more taste for his father^s 
profession than for his under's business. Oh, Mademoiselle 
Napeau, I wanted to ask you to design a tea-gown for me 
— something new — something that will suit my style. I 
am called picturesque by artists. 

She turned her round, meaningless face and stuffy over- 
laced figure full upon Mile. Nepeau. I did not smile to 
myself and repeat internally, 

“ Would some power the giftie gie us/^ ete., 

as 1 would have done under other circumstances. I was 
mechanically gathering up measuring-tape and pins, not 
knowing what I was doing, for a thought — a scheme had 
fiashed into my mind and made a tumult there. 

It was at this instant that the conception of my sin was 
born in my brain — born of the talk of those two women. 


MY OWN SIN. 41 

who little knew what a crime sprung from the seed of their 
idle gossip. 

The wild and wicked thought was this: Why should not 
Gerald marry this dying heiress and inherit the splendid 
fortune? No one suspected his secret marriage. Besides 
ourselves, no one knew of it except my mother and the old 
minister who had performed the ceremony. No one would 
know. The girl, poor creature! would not be wronged; 
she would die without knowing the truth. As for me, I 
shivered at the thought of any other woman calling my 
Jerry husband. But this girl seemed hardly human — 
rather a spirit. It was impossible for a warm, red-blooded 
creature like me to be jealous of that shadowy being, who 
had been doomed' by the judgment of two eminent doctors 
to die within three months. They had examined her; they 
had declared that her lungs were nearly gone. People 
could not live without lungs — that was a physical fact. 
She would die in three months, and her fortune would go 
to Gerald. He could then marry me openly. We could 
have a home with every comfort and luxury for ourselves 
and poor, worn, anxious mother; and Nell, who was so 
bright, could be well educated. Then I could have my 
husband to myself. No more lonely evenings, striving to 
put down jealous fears and envious longings. 1 could en- 
dure three months of absence and gloom for the sake of 
the brilliant future. 

When this thought first darted across my brain I recoiled 
from it in horror — 1 smiled at its madness. But it came 
again and again, and each time it horrified me less. I 
made an effort to drive it off; I set my teeth in determina- 
tion; I clipped the cloth I was cutting fiercely, as though 
it were the temptation that was assailing me. But all in 
vain. Each time it came it seemed more feasible and less 
revolting. At last it appeared to me a very natural and 
safe proceeding — the end justifying the means. 

Gerald came to see me that night, and I related to him 


42 


MY OWK SIN. 


the talk of the two women in Miss Nipper^s reception- 
room. 

The busyhodies!^^ he said. ‘‘It is astonishing how 
much they pick up. Then they invent the rest, and retail 
the whole as gospel truth. No doubt their gossip made 
you feel badly, my darling. 1 want to make a confession 
now. I have not yet told Elsie that our boy and girl en- 
gagement must not be thought -of. I have not had the 
courage. She is so frail, and she seems to cling to me so, 
to be so fond of me, just in the way she was when we were 
children. They say anything like a shock would kill her 
at once, and I am afraid it will be a shock to her to have 
me tell her that 1 can not keep that early promise. She 
will be sure to think it is because of her ill health, and she 
is so sensitive about her state. Like all invalids, she clings 
to hope. I wanted my uncle to tell her, but he refuses 
point-blank to do it, so I must take up the cross to-mor- 
row. To tell the truth, I have been expecting she would 
get down in her bed for good every day. She has grown 
weaker since she came, but she insists it is because she has 
overexerted herself. 

“ You said you told your uncle — what did he say?^^ 

“I told him this morning. He had a talk with me. 
He wanted that I should marry Elsie at once. It might 
benefit her health, he said. Love often worked wonders, 
but I felt sure it was because he was afraid she might die 
any day. He said she was evidently wrapped up in me, 
and fully believed that I would keep faith with her. He 
wanted us to marry and sail for Europe on the next trip of 
the ‘ Atlantic. ^ He was very angry when I told him I had 
no intention of marrying her. He insisted that I was 
bound to her in honor — that I had all along led her to ex- 
pect I would keep the engagement our parents had made 
between us. He said it would be cruel, murderous, to 
throw her off now. The shock would kill her. She would 
be sure to feel that her delicate health was the cause, and 


43 




MY OWN SIN. 

she would lose hope^ which was the chief thing that sus- 
tained her — that and her love for me. She was trying so 
hard to live for my sake. This is what he said.^^ 

There is truth and feeling in it/ ^ I answered. It 
would be cruel, murderous, as he said, to tell her now 
while she is so weak.^^ 

“ But don^t you see, Hilda, that I must tell her, because 
she is expecting me to marry her before she sails for 
Europe, and my aunt and uncle are expecting it, urging 
it, telling all their friends that it is a settled thing. What 
must I do, my dearest? Set your fertile little brain to 
work and tell me the best way out of this miserable 
scrape. 

I hesitated. I was silent, mustering resolution. Then 
I said slowly: 

‘‘ The best way out is to do as they all wish and expect 
— marry Miss Vaughn. 

Hilda, 1 asked you an earnest question; I did not ex- 
pect you to jest in reply,^^ he said, in a vexed, disappoint- 
ed tone. 

I am not jesting. I am speaking earnestly. We want 
money, Gerald — we can not do anything without it. We 
can not live this way. It is wearing me out. 1 grow more 
unhappy every day. 1 want to be your acknowledged wife, 
but I will not let you acknowledge our marriage while we 
have nothing to live upon. I will not have it said of Ger- 
ald Oldridge that his wife works in a dress-maker^s shop to 
support herself. Miserably discontented as I am, I prefer 
this double life to the mortification of the other and the 
injury it will do your future prospects. What then? 
What is the remedy? Nothing but money. Marry this 
heiress; she will die in three months, and her money will 
make all things right with us. 

Marry her! Hilda, are you mad? 1 am already mar- 
ried — to you — 

But no one suspects it. No one will ever know/^ 


44 


MY OWN SIN. 


I should feel that 
I should honor and 


‘‘ My God^ do you know that you counsel me to commit 
a crime that would make me a felon in the eyes of the 
law?^^ 

The law will never know it. No one will. 

I will know it^ you will know it. I will know myself 
to be a perjured wretch, unworthy my own respect or 
yours. 

You would not lose my respect, 
you had made a sacrifice for my sake, 
admire you for it.^^ 

Great God! what demon in my breast made me utter 
those words with that persuasive smile — that tender touch 
of my arm about his neck! 

He shook my arm off as though it had been a serpent. 
He got upon his feet and stood looking down at me. 

Hilda, how dare you tempt me so? You will repent 
this, believe me. You have put this thing into my head. 
1 would give half my life if I had never heard those words 
from your lips.^^ 

He snatched his hat and rushed out of the room. I saw 
him no more that evening. 


CHAPTEE VI. 

It was the first night since our marriage that Gerald had 
left me without taking me in his arms and kissing me. I 
felt miserably about it. The sting of his last words 
brought bitter tears to my eyes as I lay awake in my bed. 
“ I have fallen in his esteem, I said to myself. 

Yet, oh! perversity of the heart into which the Tempter 
had entered, I did not relinquish the scheme that had re- 
volted my husband. No, I held to it; 1 thought it over. 
It grew on me as I refiected upon it. It seemed not only 
possible, but feasible; not only expedient, but right. Yes, 
I reasoned myself into the belief that it was right. Where 
was the wrong in it? There was no wrong to Elsie. She 


MY OWN SIN. 


45 


would never know that Gerald was not her true husband, 
and she would be content. By marrying her, Gerald would 
fulfill his father^s wish, and would make Elsie happy dur- 
ing the short time she had to live. 

There was no wrong to me, for 1 had consented to the 
sacrifice. The sacrifice would fall most heavily on me, but 
I could bear it for the sake of Gerald future good. 1 
arrogated to myself the part of martyr for the pain I must 
endure in giving up my darling, even for that short time, to 
another. 

I could never do it if that other were more a flesh and 
blood woman and less a ghost. But I could not be jeal- 
ous of this girl, with the stamp of death upon her wan 
brow. 

Of course there would be a sacrifice on Gerald^s part of 
his own feelings. Naturally, he would revolt from the de- 
ception that the act of marriage would involve; he would 
revolt from the close association with one he did not love. 
But he felt a sympathy, a pitying regard for Elsie Vaughn. 
He could be kind to her, watchful of her, constant in his 
attentions to her while her life lasted. He could be this 
to her, while he was loyal to me in every pulse of his 
being. He could be her companion, her watchful attend- 
ant, her nurse and comforter for three months; and after 
that — oh! after that — all would be clear. Gerald would 
be all mine; he could own me before the world; he could 
be independent of his uncle; he could pursue the career his 
talents marked out for him; he, and I by his side, could 
take the place in the world that was ours by right. 

‘‘Yes, it shall be,^^ I said to myself. “ Gerald shall 
consent. He shall marry Elsie Vaughn, and her money 
shall be his. 1 should be miserable to think he had lost so 
much because of me. I will make this sacrifice for his 
sake. It is not a sin. If it be I can not help it. Cir- 
cumstances urge me to it, and the end justifies the means. 
Wrong or right — it shall 


46 


MY OWN SIN. 


Then 1 crept back to bed. I silenced the inner voice 
that was feebly raised against my resolution and slept. 

Everything that happened next day served to strengthen 
me in my resolve. Miss Nipper was cross, and my task in the 
trying-on room was more distasteful than usual. I had to 
endure the haughty superciliousness of women who thought 
me little better than the wooden models 1 hung dresses 
upon. On one occasion I was stung with the taunts of a 
woman whose money, mounting up into millions, could 
not buy her a handsome feature or a sense of true polite- 
ness. I was arranging the folds about the neck of a tea- 
gown we had made for her — a beautiful thing in Pom- 
peiian -red and cream — and she was noting the effect in the 
mirror. I suppose the sight of my younger and fairer 
face annoyed her. She turned to Miss Nipper and said, 
sneeringly: 

“ I will wait until your trying-on young woman has 
looked enough at herself. You should have a mirror for 
your work- women and another for ladies. 

Thexi there would be none for you, madame,^’ lex- 
claimed, impulsively. The retort nearly cost me my place. 
The woman was furiously angry. Her fat face grew red- 
der than the flowers in her hat. She uttered a tirade 
against the insolence of underlings. Miss Nipper apolo- 
gized and I stood by pale and silent, but feeling my heart 
beat fast with indignation. 

For Gerald, too, the day had peculiar trials. I had 
written to him in the morning to be sure to come that 
night, making my short note as kind and pleasant as pos- 
sible, with no allusion to our little quarrel. I mailed the 
note as I went to my work. I felt sure he would come. I 
put on a fresh dress and some flowers, and gave him a 
smiling welcome when at length his step was heard in the 
hall and Nell flew to open the door and spring into his 
arms. 

I saw at once there was a cloud on his face. He tried to 


MT OWN SIN. 


47 


w\ - - 

^ \ 

talk pleasantly with mother, and to tease and romp with 
Nell, as usual, but it cost him an effort, and he gave a 
sigh of relief when we were at last alone in the little room 
he had had so neatly fitted up. 

I went to him and put my arms around his neck. 

‘‘You were late to-night, I said. “Were you busy, 
or did you forget to wind up your watch, as you sometimes 
do. Where is your watch — you are not wearing it to- 
night 

He hesitated an instant, then he said: 

“I sold it. 

“ Sold your father^s beautiful old watch. Why did you 
do that?^’ 

“ Because I needed the money. I borrowed some money 
a little while ago — ^borrowed it from a friend. He is him- 
. self in a strait just now, and I sold the watch and paid the 
loan — in part. 

I was silent, remembering with a pang that the money 
was borrowed on my account, to keep us up during my 
mother^s illness and my absence from Miss Nipper^s. I 
went to a drawer and took out a little roll of bills. 1 had 
been saving every cent of my earnings over actual expenses 
for the last few weeks, but the sum was very small. I put 
it into Gerald^s hands. 

“Your watch only paid the debt in part,^^ I said. 
“ This will make it smaller by a few dollars, and 1 will 
save more when 1 can.^^ 

He thrust the bills back into my hand. 

“ Hilda, do you think I would take a cent of your poor 
little earnings? I am ashamed that I have not yet been 
able to give you a summer outfit. 

“ 1 do not need any new clothes. I never go anywhere, 
and no one ever comes here — but you. I must even quit 
going out with you so much, for fear of scandal. Miss 
Nipper told me she had seen me with you several times, 
and warned me against going with young men— particu- 



48 


MY OWN SIN. 


larly those above me in station. She said she could not 
have girls in her establishment that were not prudent."'^ 

I spoke with a hard, bitter calmness. The talk with 
Miss Nipper had been one of the day^s evil happenings. 
Gerald^'s forehead contracted with pain. He started from 
his seat. 

^‘Hilda/^ he said, this is what I feared. Our mar- 
riage must be made public. You must not be subjected 
to suspicion; you must not lead this narrow, isolated life, 
without friends or acquaintances. You must take your 
true position. 

My true position! What would that be? How much 
better than it is now? Money gives position. 1 should 
only drag you down from your own position by letting it 
be known we were married. You would lose your place 
with your uncle and your chance for the future, and I 
would continue to be Miss Nipper^s trying-on young 
woman — unless we concluded to starve all together. If 
you gofc admitted to the bar, what would be your chance of 
success encumbered with a family of three — your wife a 
dress-maker^s assistant?^^ 

He gave me a look full of helpless anguish. He walked 
to the mantel-piece and leaned his elbow upon it, his head 
dropped upon his hand. Presently I said: 

Never mind me just now, dear. Think about your 
present difficulty — that debt. Could you not get an ad- 
vance on your salary from your uncle ?^^ 

No,^^ he answered, briefly. Then, after awhile: “1 
asked for an advance. I hated to do it, he has been so 
cold for the past few days. He refused to give it. He said 
he could not spare a dollar. 1 know this is so. 1 told 
you he had borrowed money at a high interest to enlarge 
his business. This cripples him, otherwise his prospects 
are bright. His business would bear still further enlarging 
if he had capital. 

‘‘ And he expected to get that capital through you?^^ 


MY OWK SIN. 


49 


Yes/^ 

And he is angry with you because yon ha^e disappoint- 
ed him?^^ 

“ Yes^ and so is my aunt. I had a scene with them 
last night. I shall have to leave there. I shall have to 
get another situation — if possible.'’^ 

It will be hard to do that now, just as the summer is 
beginning. 

He did not reply. He remained leaning on the mantel- 
piece, his head resting on his hand. Suddenly he turned 
to me and caught my hands in his. 

Hilda, tell me what to do,^^ he said, his face working 
with pain and indecision. 

I looked into his eyes for a minute. I knew that he 
would do what I urged. I was the stronger spirit. He 
was not fitted to cope with difficulties, unless 1 had bravely 
helped him. 1 might have done this. 1 might have said : 

Let us acknowledge our marriage and live together, 
work together, and trust and hope. Leave your uncle, enter 
the office of the lawyer, your father's friend; work your 
way up. We are young, we can afford to make haste 
slowly.-'^ 

This was what I should have said at this moment of 
doubt and indecision. Gerald would have responded to it 
at once. I could have infused him with courage and hope. 
Oh, God! why did 1 not speak the right words at that 
supreme moment? They were in my heart; they were 
almost on my lips. A wild conflict raged within me for a 
moment, but the evil spirit was the stronger. When I 
spoke it was to say: 

There is but one way out of the difficulty, dear Ger- 
ald — but one way that has in it anything except crushing 
poverty and hopelessness. 1 told you of that way last 
night. '' 

Hilda, do you still wish me to commit that sin?'' 

It is no sin. You do not wrong any one. The law 


50 


MY OWK SIK. 


can not punish, for it will never know. Elsie Vaughn will 
feel no wrong, for she will never know of the relation be- 
tween us. She can live but a few months, and after her 
death we will be married openly; we will be independent, 
rich, happy. You can give your time and talents to the 
profession you love. We will have our home, our friends. 
I will help you to win fame and to add to your fortune. 

A light flashed over his face, then it clouded. He said, 
bitterly: 

It is a fair superstructure you build on a foundation of 
dishonor. Yes, disguise it as you will, it is dishonorable. 
A man must sacrifice honor and principle, as well as feel- 
ing — he must be a deceiver, a hypocrite, a villain to do 
such a deed. I can^t do it, Hilda 

He walked away from me and went back to the mantel- 
piece. 

I sat down and waited in silence. 

I knew the struggle going on in his breast. I felt how 
it would end. 

Again he wheeled around and came to me. 

You say you are willing I should take Elsie Vaughn 
as my wife?’^ 

Until her death — which will not be long — yes. I have 
consented to this. I have consented to sacrifice my feel- 
ings. The hardest sacrifice falls upon me. 

Hilda, do you understand that if I do this I must play 
the part of a husband to this girl — that I must take her to 
my arms — that my kisses must be hers — 

‘‘Hush!^^ 1 cried, with a passionate gesture. I con- 
sent to it, but I do not want to think of it — I consent to 
it for your sake. True love does not shrink from sacri- 
fice. I think of the future. I know you will be loyal, 
that your heart will be all mine, that you would not, can 
not, care for Elsie Vaughn. You will be kind to her, a 
faithful, gentle companion and friend. She will not want 
more. She is too ill to have any of the warmth of passion- 


MY OWN SIN. 


51 


ate love in her veins^ or to wish or expect to receive it. 
Yon must sacrifice your feelings, your prejudices, or 
principles, as they may be called; but how can you help 
it? Circumstances make fate for us. Fate presses you to 
this step. Better take it boldly, and Fate, that always re- 
wards courage, will reward you with a solution of all your 
perplexities.^^ 

Hilda, you tempt me beyond my strength, he said, 
looking at me, his beautiful eyes full of sadness and re- 
proach. 

I threw my arms around him and laid my head against 
his breast. 

“ You do not love me, or you could not ask me to do 
this thing he said, kissing me, but without warmth. 

J^Love you, my darling, my own beautiful dearest! I 
love you with all my soul!’^ I cried, pressing my lips to his 
face again and again, kissing his forehead, his perfectly 
molded chin, his neck, his mouth under the thick brown 
mustache. 

His arm closed about me, his lips returned my kisses, 
but he murmured: 

Still you would give me up?^^ 

Never, never. I would kill the woman who came be- 
tween us. I do not give up one particle of you. You 
will be mine the same all the while and forever. I make 
the sacrifice for your sake— you make it for mine. We 
will love each other better for it when the short trial is 
over. 

Are you sure of that?^^ 

“ I am sure of it.^^ 

“ And you will never regret it, never reproach me for 
it, never think of me as weak and as a hypocrite?^ ^ 

‘‘Never. How could 1? I will always remember that 
it was 1 who urged you to the step, I who suggested it first. 
I can never reproach you. I will promise that — I will 
swear it. 


52 


MY OWN SIN. 


Then^ Hilda, I will do as you ask.^^ 

I tightened the clasp of my arms about him and laid my 
lips to his. I had conquered. The promise was given. 
The act — nay, why not speak plainly? — the sin I had 
tempted him to commit would be done. Was I satisfied? 
No. For an instant I came near crying out: “ No, no; I 
recall my words. I was not in earnest. I was only 
tempting you to try you.^^ But I did not yield to the im- 
pulse; I did not again speak of the subject. It was set- 
tled — I could not retract. It would look childish, idiotic, 
after all my arguments and ‘ persuasions. Not a word 
more about it was spoken, until, as Gerald kissed me good- 
bye an hour past midnight, he whispered: ^^I will keep 
my promise. Then I knew that before we should meet 
again he would have spoken to his uncle and to Elsie, and 
all would be arranged. 


CHAPTER VII. 

Gerald did not come to see me the following evening. 
He sent instead a basket of grapes and roses, and a short 
note that said: 

‘‘ What you wished done has been done. May there 
never be cause to regret it. I will come to-morrow even- 
ing and tell you all. This evening I am to stay at home 
at my aunt^s request and hear her niece play. I have paid 
her scarcely any attention. 

I knew this was true. He had not taken as much notice 
of Elsie as was due to her — merely as the guest and rela- 
tion of his uncle’s wife. Nearly all the time he could 
spare from business and study was given to me. This 
must change. If Gerald was now formally betrothed to 
Elsie, he must show her the attention due a fiancee, I 
must not expect to have his company every evening. He 
must amuse Elsie — he must listen to her play, he must sit 


MY OWN SIN. 53 

by her and talk to her and hold her hand^ and make his 
tones soft and sweet for her ear. 

I grew sick at the mere thought. Every moment Ger- 
ald could spend with me had been precious to me. I did 
not want to be deprived of one of them. I tried to solace 
myself with the timely proverb, ‘^One can^t have his pie 
and eat it, too.^^ 

We — Gerald and I — could not have the fortune that 
would make us so happy without a sacrifice. And I had 
said I would not shrink from sacrifice. 

Gerald met me on my way home the next afternoon at 
six. He went home with me and we had a simple little 
tea, and then, as the May evening was mild, with a glori- 
ous full moon, we took a long ride out to Harlem in a 
car, where we were the only passengers, as far as the ele- 
vated road could take us, and we had our talk. I was in a 
state of feverish excitement — half eager to hear that all 
was arranged, half miserably remorseful for ever having 
conceived this scheme and induced Gerald to enter into it. 

I was morbidly anxious to know all that had been said 
and done. 

‘^Tell me everything just as it happened, I said to 
Gerald. 

My aunt brought up the subject by coming to me be- 
fore I left the house to go to my business, and asking if it 
was possible that I refused to keep my engagement to 
marry Elsie Vaughn. If I intended to act so dishonor- 
ably, she said, it would be better for me to say so at once, 
that Elsie might know what to expect. Also, it was cer- 
tainly not in good taste, to say the least, for me to con- 
tinue staying in the house where Elsie was a guest after 
acting in such bad faith toward her. I said 1 had no wish 
to act in bad faith to Elsie. The engagement was made 
when we were too young to have any feeling in the matter, 
and there had been no definite understanding since we had 
arrived at an age to know our own minds and hearts. 


54 


MY OWK SIN. 


Elsie^s health was so delicate I did not think she cared to 
marry. Then my aunt said that Elsie was a creature that 
lived upon affection. To be loved was as necessary to her 
as food and air. She had taken the loss of her mother 
sorely to heart. She was sensitive and shy^ had been raised 
up in seclusion, and was attracted to but very few people. 

‘ She has always loved you dearly/ said my aunt. ^ She 
has kept your image in her heart, idealized by her romantic 
nature into something superhumanly noble and admirable. 
You can surely see in her eyes how attaolied she is to you. 
Her looks follow you everywhere like a devoted child^s. A 
change comes over her face when you go away with a care- 
less notice of her, and she watches for your coming. I 
have discovered that she is unhappy, because she fears you 
no longer care for her now that she is an invalid, and that 
you are wanting to be free of her, and feel bound to her 
only by duty. She^ has been trying to get up courage to 
tell you that you must not think she intends holding you 
to your promise. She will give you your freedom at once 
— if you desire it. All the same, it would be as cruel in^ 
you to take it as it would be unwise. It would break her 
heart. 1 will speak to her this evening,^ was all I answered. 
After dinner my aunt left us alone in the music-room. 
She played for me as well as her frail strength would per- 
mit, and then we talked of our childhood and— of my 
father — and her mother. She told me she had a letter her 
mother had written to be given to me. She had not given 
it, and when I pressed her to know why she had not she 
said she had believed it would no longer signify anything 
to me. It was about the old boy and girl engagement 
between us — and that had no doubt passed out of my mind 
— or at least out of my heart. ^ Has it passed out of your 
heart, Elsie I asked. She said nothing, her lids were 
cast down, and I saw that they trembled. Presently she 
lifted them and looked at me, and oh! Hilda, I saw that 
my aunt was right. The poor frail, dying child loves me 


MY OWK SIN. 


55 


with all her heart. She tried to speak and couldn^t for 
crying. She was so agitated^ and her little hands so cold 
that 1 was frightened for her, and — 

You put your arms around her and kissed her, and 
drew her head on your shoulder and told her you had not 
ceased to care for her, and that you were ready to fulfill 
the boyish pledge at any time that suited her,^^ I said. 

The words came clear and calm from my lips, but my 
hands under my wrap were clinched together in the effort 
to keep down the bitter feeling that rose in me. And yet, 
I said to myself, Gerald could hardly do less in acting out 
the part I had assigned him. And how could I be jealous 
of Elsie Vaughn — that specter of a girl who had only three 
months to live.^ 

Yet I could not help saying, with a touch of sarcasm: 

^^You have carried out my suggestion so far fully — 
quite fully, I must say.^^ 

If I had approached her in a formal business way she 
would have told me at once the engagement was broken 
off. She is proud, though her nature is so loving. 

Loving? I would never imagine that dead and alive 
creature had any love in her nature I exclaimed, impa- 
tiently. 

He looked at me closely. 

Hilda, you will never be able to stand this. You are 
angry and bitter this moment. Better end it here, and 
let me tell Elsie and my uncle to-morrow that I am already 
married. 

No, no; indeed you shall not. It is too late now, 
and I am glad it is. Of course I shall suffer a little at 
first.- I can bear it — I will bear it. You acted just right. 
You only did as you ought. Go on — tell me what she said 
— when is the marriage to take place 

In one week. 

‘^One week?^^ I gasped. One week! Well, I am 
glad there will be so short a time, for suspense is some- 


56 


MY OWN SIN. 


thing harder for me to bear than crushing grief. How 
came you to settle upon so early a day?^^ 

‘‘My aunt and uncle came in while we were talking, 
and they settled it to suit their own convenience and 
Elsie^s interest, as they said. My aunt wishes to shut up 
house and go to Europe for a month or two. Elsie^s phy- 
sician is urging her to take the trip, and to go by the first 
of June. The steamer they wish to sail upon leaves nine 
days from to-morrow. 

“And you are going away — you are going with Tier I 
You are going to leave me ! Oh, Gerald 

I covered my face with my hands. He put his arm 
around me. 

“ Hilda,^^ he said, “ my going or staying rests with you. 
It is not yet too late. Say the word and I will unsay 
everything. I will tell them that I am already married. 

“ I will not be so weak,^^ I cried. I dashed off my 
tears and shook back my hair with a gesture of decision. 
“ No, I will not be so weak. *But 1 never thought of your 
going a way. 

“ I think it is better. You could not bear it if I stayed. 
Since it must be, it is better that 1 will be away until — 
until I am free to claim you. 

“ Yes, it is better,'’^ 1 admitted. 

“ But, Hilda, there is one thing. Suppose — suppose 
Elsie does not die. Suppose she does not die in the three 
months they have given her to live? I do not think she 
can survive that long; do you? One would not imagine 
she could live a month to look at her, and yet she has a 
great deal of vitality. Last night I was surprised at her 
animation. She played with spirit for awhile, and her 
eyes brightened. There was even a faint color in her 
cheeks. 

“ It was excitement — the hectic strength and glow that 
come to all consumptives when they are under the stimulus 
of excitement. You are quite sure Doctor McKenna said 


MY OWN SIN. 


57 


positively that she could live but a few months when you 
questioned him about her.^^^ 

1 am quite sure. Doctor McKenna knows of my en- 
gagement to Elsie. He attended her in Florida, where he 
spent last winter. He came with her to New York. He 
knew I wanted to be told the truth about the state of her 
health, and he gave me his candid opinion.'’^ 

Tell me his words! Repeat them to me againl^'^ 

“ He said that whoever should marry Elsie Vaughn 
would marry a dying girl. He said he thought it his duty 
to tell me this. And now — he and all the world will look 
on my marriage as simply the heartless speculation of a 
fortune-hunter.-^^ 

It is no matter. Mercenary matches are made every 
day. They will soon forget how the money came. It 
would hardly do to look closely into the way most fortunes 
have been gained — the world never does."^^ 

r shall always be a scoundrel in my own eyes/^ he 
said, bitterly, and in yours, too, I fear.^^ 

In my eyes you are all that is noble and dear. You 
are making this sacrifice for me. If it is a sin the sin is 
mine, and on my head let the punishment fall — on mine 
alone. 

He looked at me with sad tenderness, and said, smooth- 
ing my hair with soft touches: 

Do not say that, my darling. No punishment, no 
pain could fall upon you alone while I lived. What gave 
you sorrow would bring unhappiness to me. We are one, 
Hilda, now and forever. And now, dearest, do not let us 
speak Elsie Vaughn ^s name, or think of her during this 
week any more than we can help. Let us think of each 
other, of the future — of our love and our hope — and try to 
be happy while we are together. 

I did try. I summoned all the courage, all the will- 
power in my nature to bear me through this week of trial. 


68 


MY OWN SIN. 


I would not let Gerald see in me a sign of weakness or 
faltering. 

I knew it would be fatal to my plan. One symptom of 
regret or repentance on my part, and he would have re- 
tracted. He was on the verge of doing so again and again. 
He was so unhappy, so self -scornful. More than once he 
burst out in bitter sneers against himself — calling himself 
a hypocrite, a traitor; and declaring he could never go 
through with it. I met these outbursts calmly, and op- 
posed them with the quiet steadiness of my stronger will — 
with the sweetness of persuasion and the soothing of love. 

I had never been more attractive to him than I was that 
week. The fever of excitement within me gave a rich 
color to my clear cheeks and lips, and a brilliancy to my 
dark eyes. 1 called up all the power of charm and persua- 
sion that was in me. My love for Gerald — the intense 
love of an impassioned nature — was increased by the 
thought that he was making a sacrifice of principle, of his 
cherished sense of honor and right, for my sake. And he 
was going away. 1 must lose him for weeks — for months. 
We, who had never been separated, must be parted by 
thousands of miles of land and ocean. 

All this gave warmth to my kisses and passionate in- 
tensity to every look and tone. They helped to daze and 
bewilder Gerald, and to impel him on to do the thing I 
had desired — the act his more scrupulous and less lawless 
nature revolted against. 

Excitement sustained me on its topmost wave that week. 
1 was not cool enough to suffer. I was as eager as a gam- 
bler playing the last hand of a game on which he has 
staked everything. 

The evening of the marriage came. It had been a 
clouded, gloomy day. I had gone home at noon, telling 
Mrs. Nipper I was ill. 

Indeed, I think you are in a high fever, she said, 
looking at my burning cheeks and dry, scarlet lips. 




MT OWN SIN. 


59 


Gerald came to me in the afternoon. I was lying down 
on the lounge in our little room. Mother had been teasing 
me to take something. When she saw Gerald she said: 

Ah^ here is Jerry. She will mind you, my son. I 
want her to go to bed and drink some Serky^s tea; it will 
cool her blood. Her head is hot and throbbing. I think 
she ought to see a doctor.^"' 

‘‘ Leave me with Jerry; he is doctor enough for me/^ 1 
said. ‘‘I want to talk to him, mother. He is going 
away, you know.^^ 

Yes, that is what is the matter with you; 1 suppose he 
must go with his aunt, to keep on the right side of his 
uncle, but it seems hard to leave you behind. 

It is a question of finances, I said. I will go next 
summer — when our ship comes in.^^ 

Mother knew not a word of the marriage that was to be 
to-night. She had no dream, dear innocent old soul, of 
the scheme that had formed in my brain, and that I had 
instigated Gerald to carry out. She would never know. 
She lived utterly out of the world. She never read the 
papers. She would never hear of Jerry ^s maWage with 
the rich consumptive young heiress until Elsie had met 
her doom and her fortune was Gerald^s and mine. 

When she had gone out, I rose up and put my arms 
around my husband^s neck. I looked into his eyes; my 
own were shining through the mist of unshed tears. 

‘^Oh, Jerry, tell me that you love me with all your 
heart, that you will love me forever, that nothing shall 
ever, ever come between us; swear it to me, Jerry. 

I do swear it, my darling! Hilda, a man could do no 
more for a woman than sacrifice his honor for her sake, as 
I am doing for you.^^ 

Oh, Gerald, I wish I had— 

I stopped and checked back the utterance of that wish 
which had almost burst from my lips. Why did I do it? 
Even then it was not too late. 


60 


MY OWN SIN. 


Gerald asked, eagerly: 

you wish you had never urged me to do this, 
Hilda? Do you want me to retract? 1 will do it, dearest. 
It is not too late. Something tells me this is a fatal step. 
I had a fearful dream last night. ^ 

‘‘ So had I. But dreams are nothing except a token of 
weakness. Only the strong — the bold — succeed. We 
must be strong. No, I do not repent. We are doing 
nothing criminal. The end justifies the means. It is all 
right. Only, only — oh, Gerald! — you must love me 
through it all. You must let this make no difference to 
you. It should make you love me better, for oh! I shall 
suffer — how I shall suffer! Do you realize it? You will 
be away; new scenes, novel situations, pleasant acquaint- 
ances, and the devotion of another woman will distract 
and interest you. I must stay here with the old surround- 
ings, and think, and remember, and fear — perhaps doubt 
— even you. We can not master our own hearts, alas!^^ 
You must not stay here, dearest. You must take 
your mother and little Nell to the sea-shore or the mount- 
ains, andy^ou must not let yourselves have fears or 
doubts. You can never doubt me, my darling wife. 
Every pulse of my heart is yours. I will write to you con- 
stantly, and you will send me long, sweet letters, and I 
shall soon return. 

And so he soothed me, with his arms around me and 
mine about him, until it wanted but little more than an 
hour to the time of the ceremony that would — oh, strange, 
bewildering thought! — make him the husband of another 
woman. 

‘^You must go,^^ I said. ‘^Don^t let your heart fail 
you at the last moment, for he looked utterly wretched, 
and he had just said that he knew now how traitors feel 
when they sell their country or their friends for money. 

When he was gone I pretended to my mother that I 
wanted to sleep, and . she left me alone, keeping Nell also 


MY OWN SIN. 


61 


out of my room. But I had no thought of sleep. I was 
wild with feverish restlessness. I wanted to see this mar- 
riage, or at least to see my hushand^s bride — to look at her 
again — and to assure myself of the fact that she was 
doomed — that she would not live three months. Three 
months! I felt myself madly longing that she would not 
live three weeks — three days. I hoped she would die on 
the trip across the ocean. Perhaps she would. Surely, 
when I saw her, she looked too frail to stand the ordeal of 
seasickness. Had she grown worse since then? Of course, 
since all her remaining life must be a slow growing worse 
as the fell disease progressed to the end. 

But I wanted to see her — to s^ee how she looked as a 
bride, to see how she looked beside my husband, and if she 
really loved him. How could such a spectral creature 
love? 

How should I compass my wish to see the bride to-night 
and yet be myself unseen or at least unrecognized? 1 
thought it over, and a plan came into my mind. 


CHAPTEE VlII. 

I WOULD wear a disguise. In this way 1 would see my 
husband^s bride, and she would never know that I was 
other than the grateful beggar I would represent, nor 
would Gerald recognize me if he should see me. 

I knew Elsie Vaughn was charitable. One day, when I 
watched her from the window as she entered her carriage 
in front of Miss Mpper^s, I saw her stop and speak to an 
Italian woman, a street singer, leading a blind old man 
who played an accompaniment on an asthmatic accordion, 
while she sung a ballad in her own tongue. Miss Vaughn, 
passing close to her, stopped and put money into her 
hand, and told her what she might take for the cough that 
broke into her singing. I heard the woman call down 
blessings upon her in broken English. 


62 


MT OWK SIN^. 


I would disguise myself to look like that Italian street 
singer. It was easily done. Our closet of cast-off clothing 
would furnish a faded red shawl to wear over my head, a 
dark stuff skirt, a black bodice. A worn front of iron- 
gray hair of my mother^s could be put over my own curl- 
ing hair, and I could make up my face with an umber- 
tinted wash and some pencil lining. 

Fifteen minutes sufficed to get myself disguised. After 
I had put on the clothes, and darkened my face, and made 
my eyebrows black and heavy with a touch of burned cork, 
I shaded hollows in my cheeks and drew pencil lines about 
my mouth, as 1 had seen amateur actors do when making 
up to look * old. Then I put the faded red shawl over my"^ 
head with its front of smooth, iron-gray hair, and pinned it 
under my chin. I drew my face down into a melancholy 
length, dropping the corners of my mouth, and looked in 
the glass. I was a middle-aged Italian woman — a beggar 
with a visage as doleful as my songs, 

I slipped out of the room, unseen by my mother and 
Nell, who may have been asleep in their beds. I crept 
down the flights of dark stairs and stepped out upon the 
street. The fresh air felt good to my burning head. At 
first I hesitated and looked about me timidly, feeling 
strange in my queer disguise. But no one seemed to 
notice me, and as I walked along in the stream of passers 
I lost all apprehension of being found out. I would have 
enjoyed the sense of changed identity but for the active 
and urgent purpose that quickened my steps. 

As I passed Sixth Avenue and hurried up Fourteenth 
Street, I glanced up at the tall clock on the sidewalk. Its 
hands pointed to half after eight. At nine the marriage 
would take place. T might still be there in time to pre- 
vent it if I wished. Did I wish it? Did I wish to save my 
husband from an act that I had prompted — nay, urged 
upon him? Did I wish to save his honor and my own hap- 
piness? Yes, for I would be the most miserable wretch on 


MY OWK SIK. 


63 


earth this night to know that he held another woman in his 
arms. I could not bear it — no, not for all the money on 
earth. 

“Undo your evil work. A voice inside me said the 
words as plainly as though they were uttered into my ear. 
A strong, sudden impulse to do as it commanded seized 
upon me. For a moment 1 stood still and struggled 
against it. But the voice within seemed to press against 
my heart, making it stand still and listen as it spoke: 

“ Go to your husband. It is not yet too late. Tell him 
to retract — to do as his sense of right and honor prompted 
— acknowledge his marriage to you. Save him from this 
crime against the law of his land, this wrong to an inno- 
cent girl, this wrong to himself and to you. It is your 
work. Go quickly and undo it. 

I glanced again at the clock. Three minutes l^ad passed. 
I could not walk to the house on Madison Square in time. 
But there was a cross-town car. Ah! here it came. I 
saw its blue light nearing me. I signaled it; it stopped, 
and I got in. Away we rattled rapidly, for the car was 
nearly empty. Yes, 1 would be in time. 

As I sunk back, with a sigh of relief, the car stopped 
suddenly. I looked out and saw other cars standing still 
on the track. I heard thepiff! piff! of fire-engines and 
knew what was the matter even before the driver, turning 
round, said: 

“ There^s a fire on ahead, in the next block, and an en- 
gine hose is across the track. 

I got out at once, but I felt that the delay was fatal. I 
would not be in time. Was it providential? Was it for 
good— or evil? Who can tell what Fate intends? Every- 
thing is ordered; everything works out to accomplish in- 
evitable destiny. 

A crowd had collected on the sidewalk in front of the 
store that was on fire. I had to make my way through 
the mass of men and boys, with here and there a woman of 


64 


MY OWN SIM. 


the class that hail such opportunities to show their painted 
charms. A man here and there spoke to me in a boister- 
ous or jeering way as I pushed past him. I paid no heed 
to it. Only one burning thought consumed me: ‘‘I shall 
be too late!^^ 

At last I reached the street. I was panting with ex- 
haustion as I neared the house. Gerald had said the wed- 
ding would be almost private, but there were half a dozen 
carriages in front of the house. The lower story was 
brilliantly lighted, as could be seen through the half- 
opened windows and gauzy curtains. 

When I came in sight of it, I heard the sound of music 
played upon a grand piano very rich and strong in tone. 
It was the Wedding March from Mendelssohn. My 
heart throbbed nearly to bursting, and I tried to quicken 
my steps. But the music stoppM before I came in front 
of the lighted liouse. Some street idlers were leaning upon 
the iron railing of the narrow grass-plots on either side the 
marble steps. One of them, evidently a servant-girl, said 
to her companion : 

“ The ceremony^s begun. The couple is standin^ in 
front of the big bow-window that^s all banked up with 
flowers and palm-trees. I saw it to-day, when I was help- 
in^ Susan. 

“ Hush! you can hear the parson marryin"' ^em/^ said 
the man she had spoken to. 

You could hear him, indeed. Through the partly open 
window, with its half -drawn blinds and light curtains, you 
could hear almost every deep-toned word of that marriage 
ceremony. I listened only an instant as I came up breath- 
less to the railing. Then I sprung up the steps and pulled 
the handle of the bell. There was no response. The door 
remained closed. The servant that attended on it was 
evidently looking on from the hall-door at the drama going 
on in the parlor — the always absorbing drama of a mar- 
riage. 


MY OWN SIN. 


65 


I gave the handle of the bell another violent pull. This 
time, after a little delay, the door was opened. The grum, 
displeased face of a pompous English butler appeared at 
the door. Seeing me, his grum expression changed to an 
angry scowl. 

Get away from this — we don^t want no beggars here!^^ 
he said, and shut the door in my face. 

I felt I had made a mistake in coming in this disguise. 
I would be refused admittance. Oh! already it was too 
late — too late to save my husband from public shame and 
disgrace and punishment. The window, open at the top, 
was close to me as I stood on the steps. As the door was 
slammed in my face, I had turned to the window with the 
impulse to try to reach it — to beat upon the panes of glass, 
and cry out: I forbid this marriage But there was an 
instant cessation of the deep, priestly tones, and then Ger- 
ald^s voice, saying, “ 1 will.^^ 

Oh, God! it was too late. If 1 spoke now, what a dread- 
ful blow would fall upon that beloved one — what a death- 
blow of disgrace, of punishment by law — what a ruin of all 
his prospects for the future! No, 1 could not speak. It 
must go on now — this crime that I had instigated — it 
must go on to the end. The marriage was already a ter- 
rible reality; Elsie Vaughn was Gerald^s wife in the eyes of 
the world — I was nowhere in their knowledge, and I could 
not speak. It was my own sin. I had forced this misera- 
ble issue. 

I felt it to be a miserable one now; the veil of glittering 
delusion was rent before my eyes. And yet all might be 
well — all would be well most probably. This girl was 
doomed; she would soon die, and my husband be given 
back to me — mine only. Already I had ceased to think 
about her fortune — or, rather, it had ceased to be the cen- 
ter of my thoughts, the absorbing purpose of my soul, as 
it had been for days and weeks. That purpose was accom- 
plished; the fortune was Gerald^s — his and mme. Ah! 


V 


66 


MY OWN SIN. 


not yet; Elsie Vaughn^s life yet stood between. Elsie 
Vaughn herself was the torturing reality in my thoughts at 
that moment. She had come between me and the sole 
possession of the man who belouged to me by law and by 
love. True, she was a mere shade of a woman — a spectral 
shadow that would soon pass. How soon? I must know 
— I must see her this night. 

The wedding-march was being played again. Mocking- 
ly it sounded in my ears. I rose from the step and again 
rang the door-bell. The pompous servant opened it, and 
I sprung from the shadow into the space between the half- 
opened door before he could shut it in my face. 

I am not here to beg,^^ I said, putting a piece of 
money into his hand. I am a poor woman that Miss 
Vaughn once befriended. I have brought her a little wed- 
ding-present.^^ 

“ Give it to me then. I will take it to her,^^ he said, 
somewhat mollified, holding out a white-kidded hand. 

No, I want to give it to her myself. She will not re- 
fuse to see me. Ask her to come here just one moment. 

CawnT do it. She^s a-receiving the corngratilations 
of her friends. She wouldnT see the likes of you for all 
your trumpery present. You cawn^t try your begging 
schemes on me. 

The insolent varlet once more slammed the door in my 
face. 

What should I do? I must see Elsie Vaughn this night. 
I must see if indeed she looked like the bride of death — if 
she looked more or looked less ghastly than when I saw her 
last. Anything was better than suspense. 

I went slowly down the steps. As I approached the 
group that still hung upon the front railing, one of the 
girls said: 

Wliy doiiT you go round the back way if you want to 
see the servants. Youh-e a fortune-teller, aren^t you? 
Well go down presently and have our fortunes told. Go 


MY OWM SIM. 


67 


round there to that basement door and ring. They ^11 let 
you in. Come, 1^11 go with you. Pm ^quainted with the 
cook, and the head- waiter, and Miss Vaughn's own maidP^ 

I followed her around to the small door on the ground- 
floor that gave entrance to the servants^ apartments. She 
rang, and the door was opened at once. There was quite 
a little company in the small sitting-room. A wedding 
always attracts guests below-stairs as well as above. Here 
were the smart-looking coachmen of the carriages outside 
drinking a pot of beer with the chamber-maids and cooks, 
while their horses were left in charge of a footman or a hired 
boy. Several of the company had just entered from above 
and were telling about the marriage which they had seen 
through the drawing-room doors as they stood in the hall. 

One very pretty girl, with dark creole eyes and skin, was 
saying: 

‘‘1 was inside where Mrs. Oldridge made me stand 
against the wall, not far from Miss Elsie, ready with cam- 
phor and smellin^ salts if she should faint. We was awful- 
ly afraid she^d faint, but Lor% she stood up like a hery- 
uine, and I heard her say ^ I will ^ as plain as could be.""^ 

‘‘ She looks dreadful pale and peeked, though,’^ said a 
young man. They say she’s as good as a dead girl.” 

1 don’t believe it. She’s stronger’n she was two weeks 
ago. I ought to know. I dresses her every day and sees 
her constant. She ain’t goin^ to die and leave Mr. Ger- 
ald. She loves him too much. Love’s better than physic 
any day. It’s my belief she’ll get well right along in spite 
of the doctors.” 

Her words went to my heart like poisoned arrows. I 
felt myself trembling. The words of the fat cook were a 
straw of comfort. 

There ain’t no cure for consumption, and that’s what 
she’s got. The doctors said so. Consumption is a power- 
ful deceivin’ complaint. ’Tain’t no sign because she looks 


68 


MY OWN^ SIN^. 


better and seems like she^s stronger. It^s nothing but the 
excitement. 

1 went up to the dark girl. You are the bride^s own 
maid?^^ I said. She was kind to me. 1 want to see her, 
to give her these roses and thank her.^^ 

“ 1^11 take them to her/^ said the girl. 

No. I want to see her myself. 1 can tell by looking 
at her if she will live and be happy. I want to give her 
the flowers and my blessing. Can^t you take me upstairs, 
and let me stand at the end of the hall — and ask her to see 
me a moment — the woman that sung in the streets, and 
had the blind father? I don^t want a cent from her. I 
only want to give her the flowers — and my blessing. 

If I get you a-speaking with her, will you tell my fort- 
une? You Ye a fortune-teller. I know by your looks. 
ArenY you?^^ 

‘'^lYl tell your fortune, my pretty girl — ^yes, and wel- 
come, if youYl let me see the bride just a minute. 

‘‘ ItY a bargain; lYl try. Be sure to tell me a good 
fortune, she said. Come, follow me. You can stand 
at the head of the stairs while I speak to her.^^ 

She ran upstairs, and I followed her. She left me stand- 
ing in the shadow at the head of the basement stairs. She 
was gone but a minute or two. When she returned I saw 
behind her the white-robed and veiled figure of the bride. 
My heart stood still as she came near, for she was leaning 
on GeraldY arm. I drew the faded shawl further over my 
face. The light in this corner was dim. How thankful 1 
was for that! Before she reached me, Elsie took her hand 
from GeraldY arm, and whispering something to him, left 
him standing in the hall. Probably she was afraid 1 might 
break out into praises of her liberality or that 1 might put 
something coarse into my congratulations, after the man- 
ner of the class to which I was supposed to belong. 

She came up to me — the girl who had just married my 
husband — the girl whose face I searched so eagerly, hoping 


MY OWN SIN. 


69 


to find speedy death written there. Was it the dim light 
or the shading of the lace veil that made her cheeks and 
her temples look less hollow than when I had seen her last 
in Miss Nipper^s trying-on room? 

Ah, how I had exulted that day over the emaciation of 
the figure I was fitting — the hollows between the shoulders, 
the wasted arms, the bones that almost showed through 
the thin pearly skin of her neck and shoulders! She had 
come nigh fainting that day while her dress was being tried 
on. I had supported her a moment, and felt, with a 
strange mixture of pity and satisfaction, how light she was 
— a mere child^s weight. 

Surely she had improved. It could not all be dress and 
excitement. Her cheeks were fuller, her eyes brighter, 
her lips — could that be an artificial color that stained those 
sweetly chiseled lips? As I gazed at her the conviction 
flashed upon me thatN if this girl were in health she might 
be almost lovely. Her features are pinched and sharpened, 
but they are not misshaped. 

She felt my keen, scrutinizing look. "" A faint color flut- 
tered into her cheek. 

“ You wanted to see me?^^ she said. 

I made an effort and recovered myself. 

“ I wanted to see you, kind signora, on your wedding- 
night, and give you these roses with my best wishes for you 
to be happy and blessed by the holy mother Mary. 

The flowers almost dropped from my hand as I suddenly 
remembered that 1 called down a blessing of happiness 
upon the woman I wished might fall dead at my feet. 

I would have recalled it if I could. It was too late. 
She had taken the flowers and was praising their beauty, 
thanking me, and asking after my blind father. I mur- 
mured something, I did not know what, and then she said, 

I would like to send a little present to your father, but 
my purse is upstairs, and then turning round she called 
to Gerald: ‘‘I claim a wifely privilege early, she said. 


70 


MY OWIST SIN. 


laughing. I want you to give me a little money to send 
this poor woman^s father. 

“ No, no; I want no nioney/^ I said, hurriedly. “ Good- 
bye, signora, and 1 rushed down the stairs before Gerald 
could come near. 

You great silly! Why didn^t you take the money 
said Elsie^s maid. She’s got plenty of it, and she’ll put 
it out on him like water, for she loves the very ground he 
walks on. And why didn’t you tell her fortune? She’d 
like to have you tell it if it was like the one the ’strologer 
Homan told her.” 

‘‘ What was it — what did she tell her?” 

Oh, ’twas good! She was going to marry soon — going 
to marry a fine man that would love her — and she would 
get well, and have a nice girl-baby. Wasn’t that good? 
Now give me as good a fortune — come!” 

She seized my arm and drew me into the circle of beer- 
drinkers about the table. 

can not; I am no fortune-teller. I must go!” I 
cried, trying to free myself. 

‘‘But you promised — you know you did. I won’t let 
you off; I know you are a fortune-teller.” 

“ Don’t let her off; she promised!” cried the others. 

“ Give me your hand, then. Here, let me see. Beware 
of discontent. Let well enough alone. Don’t be covetous 
of money. Don’t urge your lover to do things that are 
unlawful and wrong, for the sake of money. If you do, 
you will lose him, lose your happiness, and find misery and 
ruin. ” 

I dropped the shapely dark hand and made my escape. 
She followed me outside. 

“ You are a true gypsy. You knew what you were talk- 
ing about. I’ve been encouraging my boy to buy lottery- 
tickets and to play cards for money, because I wanted to 
be rich. I won’t do it any more.” 

“Don’t,” I said. “I knew a woman who made her 


MY OWl!^^ SIK. 


71 


husband play for high stakes. He won them; but she lost 
him — lost everything. She is the most miserable woman 
under the heavens to-night. 

Yes, I had made my husband play for this high stake. He 
had won; but what would come? How was it to end? In 
misery to both of us, I feared. Yes, to both, for Gerald 
loved me. He would never love Elsie. But if she should 
live — Oh! but she would not live; I would not let myself 
think such a thing. She was too frail. Of course she 
looked her best to-night. Any woman, even a dying one, 
would have a little life and brightness on her wedding- 
night, particularly if she married Gerald Old ridge. How 
handsome he looked in his bridegroom^s dress! Pale, cer- 
tainly, with an abstracted, anxious look in his beautiful 
eyes, but I knew what that meant. He was unhappy, my 
poor Jerry. His notions of honor were keener and more 
sensitive than mine; his nature was as law-abiding and 
conventional as mine was lawless and bohemian. It had 
cost him a struggle to yield to my overbearing will, my 
constant, insidious persuasions. He was remorseful and 
unhappy. He felt he had dishonored himself — his grand 
old family name. Oh! what had I done? I must have 
been mad. Some demon had possessed me for awhile, body 
and soul. I believe such things can be. 

The demon possessed me still; for all kinds of horrible 
torturing thoughts racked me that long sleepless night. I 
did not go to bed — I did not even undress. I walked the 
floor of my room all night, execrating my folly, striking 
my forehead with my clinched flst, and breaking into tear- 
less sobs, as I pictured my Jerry with that girPs head upon 
his breast. Oh, how I cursed myself, how I hated her! 
Yet I had blessed her to-night when I gave her the flowers. 
I wished that my tongue had been palsied before it uttered 
that blessing. Oh! if the flowers had only been poisoned, 
as was that bouquet given to the French king as he sat 
with La Pompadour! If there had been a drop of prussic 


72 


MY OWK SIN. 


acid in the heart of those roses when she buried her face 
among them! 

1 was a murderer in heart that night. I could have 
killed Elsie Vaughn — the most innocent of God^s creat- 
ures. Yes^ surely a demon held possession of me. 


CHAPTER IX. 

As day was breaking I threw myself on the bed without 
undressing and slept the sleep of utter exhaustion. 

The sun was shining brightly in my window when I 
woke. It was past seven o^clock. Gerald would be here 
at nine. He would come as soon as he could. He must 
not suspect the struggle I had had — the agony of last 
night. He would think me weak. I would lose my power 
over him. He must not see that I repented of what I had 
done. It would do no good. It was too late now. What 
was done could not be undone without disgrace and the 
brand of a prison upon my husband through my own sin. 

It was done^ and now there was no alternative but to 
carry it through. He must go abroad with Elsie. It was 
better, as he had said. I could not bear it if he stayed. 
She would die abroad. He would return and claim me 
openly. Oh, I must be hopeful ! I had let myself be too 
despairing last night. Jerry must never know how weak 1 
had been. A man who is himself inclined to be weak will 
forgive everything else in a woman. What does Mephis- 
topheles say to Faust? Be wicked, but donT repent. I 
know of no more mawkish thing than a devil who re- 
pents. 1 had done a wicked thing, and now I would 
stand by it stoutly. 

I looked in the mirror of my pretty dressing-case and 
saw myself pale and haggard. This would never do. 
Jerry must see me fresh and blooming and vigorous — an 
utter contrast to that pale, lifeless creature he would pres- 


MY owisr SIN. 73 

ently leave to come to me. 1 must make a change in my 
looks before he came. 

Dear little Nell came in with my breakfast. 

I knew you was sick, Hilda/ ^ she said. I came in 
here this morning early, and you was lying across the bed 
with your clothes on. I put a shawl over your feet, and 
then I went and made you some nice hot tea with lemon 
in it, and some toast and an omelet. You must eat, and 
you ^11 feel better. 

I kissed her innocent rosebud lips with a keen sense of 
my unworthiness, and let her arrange the little breakfast 
on a table while I bathed my face. Then I drank the hot 
tea and eat what I could, and felt more refreshed and ready 
to dress to receive Gerald. 

I combed and curled my hair, then I dipped a rose-red 
ribbon into cologne and rubbed it upon my pale cheeks till 
they took an artificial bloom. A glass of wine brightened 
my eyes, and I felt I might venture to wear the matinee of 
pale-pink challie he had never seen. I put it on. It had 
delicate rufiies of lace at throat and wrists. 

You look like a fiower — like a whole stalkful of pink 
hyacinth fiowers, Hilda,^^ Nell exclaimed. Jerry won^t 
go away and leave you to-day. He canT. He will take 
us all with him.'’^ 

“ Not this time; we will go with him next year — all of 
us,^^ 1 said. Run, now, and put on your white dress be- 
fore he comes. 

I walked the fioor, listening for his step, watching the 
hands of my little clock. 

‘‘Oh! he is lingering a long time with his bride, I 
cried, bitterly; though it was not yet nine o^ clock. 

Two minutes later I heard this step upon the stairs. 1 
met him at the door, and threw myself on his breast. He 
put his arms around me and kissed me. His lips were 
cold; was it from the kisses of his spectral bride? 

I drew myself from his passive enibrace and looked at 


74 


MY OWN SIN. 


him. He was pale. His eyes fell as they met mine. He 
had a dejected, almost crushed look. 

Hilda, he said, huskily, “ I feel like a criminal. 

You are no criminal, I cried, cheeringly. DonH 
think so. If there is any crime it is mine. Don^fc he so 
weak, dearest. What is done is done. Because of it do 
not live a coward in your own esteem — 

I stopped, suddenly remembering that I was repeating 
the words of the wicked wife of Macbeth — that ambitious 
queen who persuaded her husband to a deed that wrought 
woe and downfall to both. 

He recognized the involuntary quotation. 

Oh,^^ he said, quickly, would to God I could answer 
you, as I might have done yesterday, in Macbeth^s words: 

' 1 dare do all that may become a man, 

Who dares do more is none.’ 

1 have done what does not become a man, even as Mac- 
beth did in the end, and I must now say, with him: 

“ ‘ I have done the deed; 

I am afraid to think on what 1 have done.’ ” 

And 1 must say to you, still in Lady Macbeth^s words; 

‘ Consider it not so deeply.’ ” 

“ How can I help it? That poor, deceived girl! If she 
but knew — 

‘^And if she did know,^^ I cried, impatiently, ‘‘she 
would not suffer as I do in this sacrifice of my feelings — 
my wifely rights. She would not suffer, because she could 
not. Sickly and thin-blooded, she can not know what love 
is or the suffering that love brings. 

“ She does know what love is, Hilda, he said, looking 
at me with sad earnestness. “That poor girl loves me. 
I never dreamed how much until an hour ago!^^ 

“ What happened then to make you know? Tell me.'^ 


MY OWN SIN. 


75 


It does not matter. I had no business to speak of it/^ 
he said. Come here and sit on my knee, Hilda. 

Tell me what happened this morning to make you 
know that this dead-and-alive girl could feel such an emo- 
tion as passionate love. Tell me everything just as it hap- 
pened. There has got t;o be perfect confidence between 
us. If you are going to have concealments from me so 
early in the day, what will it be after awhile? Tell me 
what it was. Why do you hesitate?'^ 

‘^Only because I thought it would give you pain, dear 
Hilda. 

Concealment, deception give me worse pain than any- 
thing. Let there be truth and openness between us two at 
least. 

‘‘ I will tell you, then. This morning, after I had left 
our room for awhile, I went back into it. She was kneel- 
ing, dressed in her white cashmere morning-gown by the 
bed. She rose up as I opened the door and came to me. 
‘ I w^as thanking God for my happines,'’ she said, ^ for His 
goodness in giving you to me. Oh, my darling! I have 
loved you all my life. I hardly dared hope you would care 
for me. I had given up life — and you. Your love has 
brought me back from the very gates of death — as Eobert 
Browning^s love brought Elizabeth Barrett back from the 
brink of the dark river. Do you remember where she tells 
this in those exquisite sonnets written to Eobert Browning 
— the loveliest love songs that ever came from a poet^s 
heart? Shall I read you one of those sonnets? They seem 
to be written for me. It will tell you better than I can 
how I feel to you.^'’ 

Then she took up a little volume from the table and read 
the sonnet she had alluded to. 

Here is Elizabeth Browning^s poems. Eead that son- 
net,^^ I said, and gave him the book. This was the poem 
he read. I will remember it — and loathe it — all my life: 


76 


MY OWN SIN. 


** My own beloved, who has lifted me 
From this drear flat of earth where I was thrown, 

And in betwixt my languid ringlets blown 
A life-breath, till my forehead hopefully 
Shines out again, as all the angels see. 

Before thy saving kiss. My own, my own. 

Who earnest to me when the world was gone, 

And I, who only looked for God, found thee. 

I find thee. I am safe, and strong, and glad 
As one who stands in dewless asphodel. 

Looks backward on the tedious time he had 
In the upper life. So I, with bosom swell, 

Make witness here between the good and bad, 

That Love, as strong as Death, retrieves as well.'' 

And what did she do after she had read this poem to 
you?^^ I asked. 

Every syllable was torture, but I would spare my heart 
no pang. I would know all. 

Hilda, why do you want to know? 1 can see this 
hurts you/^ 

‘^Go on.^^ 

‘‘ She laid down the book and came to me and put her 
arms round my neck. She looked up into my face, and 
said: ^ You have given me life, through your love, my be- 
loved. And this life you have given belongs to you — all 
to you. Every heart-throb is yours. I am so glad I have 
money, that it may help you. It is all yours. I will gain 
strength and health that they may be yours — to give you 
grateful service, and make your life happy. ^ Her eyes 
were full of tears as she ended and dropped her head upon 
my breast. Hilda — 

A groan burst from my lips. A hand seemed wringing 
my heart — wringing the life-blood from it. I could see 
that picture — the girl, so pure, so impassioned, in her 
white robe, with her arms about her husband — ivy hus- 
band — her eyes lifted to his, her lips saying: You have 


MY OWN SIN. 


77 


given me life, my beloved : the life you have given belongs 
all to you."^^ 

Given her life! What business had she with life? How 
dared she deceive the world, pretending to be a dying girl? 
And now she spoke of life! Her life must be my death — 
the death of my hopes — of my happiness! 

I must have looked ghastly in spite of my false color, for 
Gerald came to me and took me in his arms. 

My darling, he said, kissing me, ‘^you would make 
me tell you. Why did I allude to it? It was cruel — use- 
less. No need for you to know.^^ 

must know, I said. I must know everything. 
So she loves you! Well, that is not to be wondered at. 
She can not love you as I do. And she is deceiving her- 
self, as all consumptives do. She will not live. Do you 
think there is any probability of her living, Gerald?^ ^ 

I do not know. She looks very frail, yet — 

Yet? What do you mean? Is she not growing gradu- 
ally worse ?^^ 

I do not see that she is worse. 

Is she better? Do you think she is better? Tell me.^’ 

“ I can not say she is; but she is a little stronger, and I 
think she has gained in flesh within the last two weeks. 

Great Heaven! why did you not tell me! Oh, you have 
deceived me!^^ 

Deceived you, dearest Hilda? I did not deceive you. 
I have always tried to make you feel that there might be a 
possibility of her recovery. But I noticed no sign of im- 
provement until lately — until last evening indeed. 

It was only the excitement. She was buoyed up by it. 
It will not last. Consumptives have these intervals when 
they seem to be rapidly improving. But her physician — 
the one who knew her in Florida, was it not? — told you 
that she had consumption and could not live. 

He told me that several weeks ago.^^ 

You imagine there may have been a change since then. 


78 


MY OWN SIN. 


Gerald, tell me — be frank with me, for God^s sake! — do 
you think Elsie Vaughn will get well?’^ 

No, Hilda. It seems hardly possible. She is so frail 
— so emaciated. 

Oh, you give me hope! I believe all will be well. She 
will not last long. Perhaps she will die on the way across 
the ocean. 

Hildar^ 

I looked at him. He was pale, and his eyes had a pained, 
stern expression. 

‘‘ It seems horrible to hear you talk so about that poor 
girl,^^ he said. 

A spasm of jealousy contracted my heart. 

You pity her, and pity may merge into love. Oh, 
Gerald, if you should come to love her!^^ 

“ That is absurd, Hilda. You know it is.'^^ 

Swear to me that you will never love her. 

I can swear it heartily. I can love no w^oman but you, 
Hilda, my wife. Would to Heaven this dreadful thing had 
never been done. I was afraid you would feel so about it. 
I warned you.^^ 

Oh, I know you warned me! You did everything to 
dissuade me. It is my doing, but I meant it for good, and 
I believe it will end all right, and we will soon be reunited 
and happy. But, Gerald, if she should live — if she should 
bid fair to live for any length of time, promise me you will 
leave her and come to me. Swear it to me.^^ 

“ I swear it, Hilda. I will leave her now. 1 will go 
straight to her and tell her all if you wish it.^^ 

No, no. That would ruin you.^"" 

“ And ruin her, poor innocent girl,""^ he said, sadly. 

Still sorrowing for her sake,^^ I thought, but I would 
not speak the words. I would not reproach him on this 
last day when he would be with me for so many long 
dreary days and weeks. ‘‘ Let us talk no more about it. 
All will come out right, I feel sure,^^ I said. Now, tell 


MY OWN SIN. 


79 


me your^^laus for your tour. l am so glad you are to have 
this little trip. It will benefit you so much. See all you 
can, improve all you can, lay in ever so big a stock of 
knowledge and foreign polish, and then come back and im- 
part some of it to your little wife. 

I nestled my head under his arm, and he drew me close 
and kissed me many times upon my curly hair, my fore- 
head, my lips and eyes, murmuring tenderly: 

Darling little wife — dearest Hilda. 

You are very sure I will always be dearest?^^ 

As sure as I am that my heart is beating against 
yours. You fill all my heart, Hilda. There is no room 
for any other. 

This logic seemed conclusive. Alas! 1 had never 
studied the mysteries of the male heart — its capacity I did 
not then know. 

I shall keep your image always with me — just as you 
look now, sweetest, in this pretty pale-pink gown, like the 
resets most curled and hidden leaf, with your sweet eyes 
misty and soft with sadness and tenderness. 

He never asked if I would keep his image in my heart 
during our absence. I have noticed that a man, after the 
pursuit of a woman has ended in possession, is seldom so 
anxious and uneasy about her constancy as she is about his. 
He is more trustful, or more indifferent — which is it? 
Gerald had not the slightest doubt of the faithfulness of 
my affection. It was a tacit tribute to its strength and in- 
tensity. 

He stayed with me until noon. His vessel was to sail at 
five o^clock, and he had many small matters to attend to. 
He went away promising to come in the afternoon to say 
good-bye. 

He came again at half past three. He looked tired and 
worn and anxious, but he was all tenderness. He put a 
purse and a check-book into my hand. 1 opened the book 


80 


MY OWN SIN. 


and saw my own name — my maiden name — on its initial 
page. 

I have placed a thousand dollars in the National City 
Bank on Fourteenth Street in your name. Hilda/^ he said, 

Draw on it for whatever you need. There are two hun- 
dred dollars in the little purse. 

I looked down at the money. A sense of guilt stung me 
to the quick. I felt as a murderer must feel when he first 
touches the money for whose sake he has committed the 
crime. 

Purse and bank-book fell from my hand. 

1 canT take the money^ Gerald — her money. 

His face darkened. 

Hilda, what do you mean? Was it not for her money 
that I did what I have done at your instance? It was for 
the good it would do you that I consented. And now you 
refuse to take it! Then 1 — 

No, no,^^ I interrupted. It was only a passing 
scruple — a foolish one. I will take the money, and put it 
to good use, dear Gerald. 

Yes, you must not return to Miss Nipper’s. Go to 
the mountains or the sea-shore with your mother and Nell, 
and recruit — build up your health and spirits.” 

And study and improve myself that I may not be too 
far behind my traveled liege lord,” I answered. Yes, I 
will read, and study French, and cultivate my voice.” 

That is right. You will be too bewitching by the time 
I return. Keep me constantly informed as to your prog- 
ress, lest it overpower me when I come. ” 

I will write every day. My letters will be following 
you around over all Europe. And I shall expect a daily 
letter. You must not disappoint me. ” 

“ If you are ever disappointed, it will not be my fault,” 
he said, tenderly. 

He was in his dark-gray traveling suit. How handsome 


MY OWIT 81 

he looked ! His pallor and the tired, sad expression in his 
eyes only gave him a more soulful charm. 

He took an affectionate leave of my mother and Nell. 
They thought he was going to Europe on business. They 
knew nothing of the marriage to Elsie Vaughn. They 
promised him to take good care of me and of themselves, 
and he promised to send them souvenirs of the lands he 
would visit. Then we had our good-bye — alone in our lit- 
tle room. How we clung together! We had never been 
separated a day since our marriage. 

^'^Don^t cry so, dearest,^^ he said. ‘^It will only be a 
little while before I hold you to my heart again. 

^^But will your heart be the same, the very same to 

The same, Hilda; how could I change to you?^^ 

Alas! alas! who can answer for his own heart? We do 
not know ourselves. We never know. Experience does 
not teach us. We are not able to tell what we may do un- 
der certain circumstances — how we may stand the test of 
certain temptations. 


CHAPTEE X. 

This was not my last sight of Gerald that day. I put a 
thick veil over my face and w^ent down to the pier to see 
the steamship take her departure. I stood outside on the 
pier when the splendid vessel moved away. 

Standing on the deck, waving good-bye to the friends 
who had come to see them off, I saw “ the bridal party 
— my husband and his bride. They stood close to the rail. 
Her hand was on his arm, and she leaned upon him and 
looked into his face. I watched them as long as I could 
distinguish their figures. I borrowed a glass from an old 
sailor and watched them through it. I saw him put his 
arm around her waist;. My head swam around, a haze 
came over my vision, I clung to the railing for support. 


82 


MY ow^r 


It was in vain. I felt my senses going; my fingers relaxed 
their hold, and I sunk down unconscious. 

The unconsciousness lasted but a moment. I opened 
my eyes, and my first glance encountered a pair of eyes 
close to me. Were they eyes? In that instant of half- 
consciousness they seemed two individually alive intelli- 
gences — evil intelligences — piercing into the depth of my 
being to read the evil there. 

They held me spell-bound. I lay in the man^s support- 
ing arms for half a minute, without any more power to 
move than a squirrel has when a snake throws a coil about 
it and looks at it with raised head and glittering eyes. I 
noted every characteristic of the face bent over me — a 
strong-featured, sallow face — the mouth hidden by a red- 
tinted black beard — the broad, low, sallow brow deeply . 
lined — the nose hooked, the chin finely molded, the neck 
long and slight, the shoulders slightly bent over. 

But the eyes — they were the most remarkable feature of 
this uncommon-looking face. They were small, with thick 
lids, that you felt could droop over and hide their expres- 
sion when he wished to hide it. That expression was in- 
tense — so concentrated that, as I said, the eyes impressed 
you as separate intelligences. The color was peculiar. It 
was green — the green of sea-waves when the yellow light of 
a storm-boding sunset glimmers upon them. 

I saw all these characteristics in the time it takes the 
pulse to throb once. I had a sudden feeling, as though 
this man was to infiuence my life in some evil way — a feel- 
ing of repulsion — and yet a sense of being controlled — of 
being mastered in spite of myself. 

I felt that his eyes were probing me — searching through 
mine to read the soul within. I tried to make an effort to 
move, to free myself from his support; but for half a min- 
ute my will seemed paralyzed. He saw it — or I fancied he 
did — for his eyes twinkled as though with a gleam of satis- 
faction, 


MY sm. 83 

With a sudden strong effort I threw off the momentary 
spell, and freed myself from his support. 

I looked around more than half bewildered. I saw the rail- 
ing of the pier — the stretch of sea glimmering in the after- 
noon sun — far off the receding bulk and trailing smoke of 
the steamship that was carrying Gerald and Elsie away. 
My head swam once more; the swish of the waves against 
the pier seemed to sound above me. I tottered and caught 
the railing for support. 

You are still too faint to stand; lean on me/’ said the 
stranger. 

1 absolutely started at the sound of his voice. It seemed 
impossible that a man who looked like that could have a 
voice so sweet, low, penetrating. Yet in its sweetness 
there was a sort of hiss that made me think of his serpent 
eyes. 

‘‘ I will be better immediately. The heat of the sun 
made rq.e a little faint — that is all,^^ I said, as quietly as 1 
could. 

A faint satirical gleam lighted his eyes. I felt sure that 
he did not believe it was the heat of the sun that had 
affected me. He had stood near me and had watched me 
gazing after the steamship. I had thrown up my veil as 
soon as the distance of the vessel made it impossible for me 
to be recognized by Gerald. He had read anguish and pas- 
sion in my face. I remembered seeing him standing there. 
He had worn gold eye-glasses then; they hung now from 
a fastening in his black coat. He did not need glasses to 
help the vision of those supernatural eyes. 

I pressed my hand to my forehead to try and collect my 
scattered senses. Then I knew for the first time that my 
head was bare, and the wind was blowing my loose hair 
about my face. I looked around for my hat, and saw it in 
the hand of the stranger. He smiled and nodded; then, 
as though he did not see my hand outstretched for the hat, 
he put it on my head himself, gathering the mass of hair 


84 


MY OWN SIN. 


together so gently and in a way so quiet and matter-of-fact 
that it was impossible to resent the act that might have 
seemed officious in another. I could only murmur: 

Thanks; now I will go. I am strong enough to 
walk.^^ 

‘‘No, you are not strong enough to go alone. Take my 
arm. I will call a carriage when we reach the street. 

There was something compelling in his low utterance. 
I could not have disobeyed him in my unnerved state if I 
had wished to. I took his arm, and walked with him 
from the pier end, where we had been alone except for two 
or three sailors and a young Italian woman and her two 
children, through the large depot-building to the street. 

There my companion signaled a cab, and when it came 
up assisted me to get into it. I was afraid he was going 
to get in after me, but he made no offer to do so. I 
thanked him for his kindness, and he bowed, looking at me 
in his intent way that yet was not rude or disrespectful. 

“ Good-bye, he said. “We shall meet again. 

“We shall meet again. His words rang in my ear like 
an alarm note of evil to come. Why should he say we 
should meet again? He had not asked my address. He 
did not know who I was or where I lived. But I felt his 
words were prophetic. I had no wish to see him any more. 
He had excited in me the strangest feeling I ever had — a 
feeling of repulsion, and yet a sense of being controlled 
against my will, and of having my motives penetrated and 
understood. 

But as the cab rattled over the stony pavement the mo- 
tion seemed to shake my wandering senses together, and I 
forgot the strange man. and his strange words, as the tor- 
rent of misery and dread rushed back upon me. 

I crept up the long flights of stairs to my room, locked 
the door and threw myself on the lounge, burying my face 
in the pillow to try and shut out the picture that was pre- 
sented so vividly to my mind. Gerald — my husband — go- 


MY OWN SIN. 


85 


ing from me, standing in all Ixis manly beauty on the deck 
of that fast-receding ship, with another woman by his side 
— a woman who clung to his arm and looked up adoringly 
into his face, as she had the right to do in the eyes of the 
toorldy for she was his acknowledged wife. He was with 
her now. Perhaps his arm was around her, her head 
against his shouldei^ as the vessel plowed its way across the 
Atlantic. He would be beside her for days and nights, for 
weeks and months. He would receive her love, her kisses. 
He would see her brighten in his presence, feel her arms 
cling to him — feel that he was so much to her. Oh, God! 
he might learn to love her. He might not be able to keep 
his promise to me. 

She was not the breathing corpse she had appeared to 
me at first. I had persisted in keeping her before me as 
she looked when I fitted her dress — a creature of skin and 
bone, with sunken eyes and pallid lips — a bloodless creat- 
ure, who seemed incapable of feeling or of exciting love. 

She had seemed so then, and I had had no fear that 
Gerald could feel for her anything but pity and disgust. 
But now! Oh, surely there had come a change! The 
woman I had seen an hour ago — a slender shape, in a loose 
gray ulster, clinging to Gerald^s arna — that woman was no 
breathing corpse. She was frail-looking — white as the 
foam of the sea that bore her on its bosom — but there was 
nothing to revolt — nothing to disgust in the fiower-white 
face. It was not death-like; the warmth — if not the glow 
of life — of hope and love were there. 

There was grace, too, in her slender figure as she leaned 
on Gerald^s arm and smiled up at him like a happy child. 
He could not help feeling the adoring tenderness of her 
smile; he could not help being touched by it to compas- 
sion, at least — and, alas! pity is but a step to love in some 
natures. 

Blind fool that I had been to say This wan, frail wom- 
an can not love, nor can she awaken love!^^ Did I not 


86 


MT OWN SIN. 


know that love makes its own laws? ^It does not need that 
a woman shall be full of Wood^ and pink and plump, for 
her to feel the passion of love or to inspire it. Women of 
the frailest type — mere bundles of nerves with hardly 
enough flesh to incase them — have shown themselves ^capa- 
ble of feeling the most passionate love and of inspiring it 
in men. Love is, indeed, a mystery and a wonder-worker. 
It may work a miracle in Elsie Vaughn as it did in Eliza- 
beth Barrett Browning. It may draw her back from the 
gates of death. 

‘‘Oh! she will live — she will live, and I am ruined 1^^ I 
cried, as I sprung from the lounge and walked the floor. 
“She will live I kept repeating, wringing my hands in 
agony of soul. “ Gerald will care for her, traitor that he 
is — 

Eeproach died on my lips. I could not blame Gerald 
for the ruin that threatened to overtake me. It was my 
work. It was I who had pulled down the lightnings upon 
my head. Gerald had been weak. He had let my stronger 
will overbear his scruples, his horror of the deed I had sug- 
gested, nay, urged upon him. It was I who had woven 
this web in which my own fate was tangled. I could blame 
no one. I had not even that poor comfort. 

Yes, that wretched doctor; he was to blame. He had 
deceived Gerald. He had said that Elsie Vaughn could 
not live. Dr. McKenna, the physician who knew her best, 
who had accompanied her from Florida, had said she could 
not live three months. Could he have been so mistaken — 
a man of his skill and experience? 

Oh, perhaps, after all, my fears are needless. Dr. 
McKenna should know best. This show of life and 
strength was a spasmodic outcome wrought by the galvan- 
ism of love and excitement. If 1 could only see Dr. 
McKenna, if I could hear from his lips his verdict in the 
case, that might satisfy me. 

1 would see him! I would go to his office to-morrow. 


MY OWK Sli^r. 


87 


I would tell him I was Elsie’s friend, and ask him to tell 
me if she would recover. This resolve quieted me. I lay 
down and slept after awhile — a disturbed, unrestful slum- 
ber. 


' CHAPTER XI. 

At eight o’clock next morning 1 was dressed and out 
upon the street. But it took an hour to find Dr. McKen- 
na’s oSke. His address was not in any city or medical 
directory. Gerald had told me he lived in Beekman Place 
— that once aristocratic but now old-fashioned, out-of-the- 
way part of New York. It was strange he should have 
gone there to live. 

It was by merest accident I found the house. I had 
wandered about and made many inquiries, when I encoun- 
tered an old black woman carrying a basketful of aspara- 
gus and white lettuce. I asked her the often-repeated 
question — ‘^Can you tell me where Doctor McKenna 
lives?^’ and was gratified by her answer that she was his 
servant, and was on her way back to his house. 

I followed her fat, waddling figure, and was soon seated 
in Dr. McKenna’s office — a lofty-ceilinged room in one of 
those large old houses that are to be found in Beekman 
Place. 

My black friend unlocked the office-door, saying, as she 
did it: Master’s out. He don’t see nobody hardly. He 
ain’t a-practiciii’ in New York yit, but he told me if you 
come, to let you in.” 

“ Me? You arp mistaken; he was not expecting a visit 
from me. ” 

He said a slim young woman with black eyes and 
curly hair, and that’s like you. Anyways, now yer in, 
take a cheer and set down. Good sakes, Albert! what you 
doin’ in here? I tho’t you was down in your room fas’ 
ersleep. How you come in here?” 


88 


MY OWN SIN. 


She spoke to a young man who had parted the curtains 
of the bay-window and stepped out, rubbing his eyes as 
though just awake. He looked little more than a boy. 
He had no sign of beard any more than of color on his 
dead-white skin. His hair, the color of honey, was cut in 
a short bang on his forehead like a school-girrs, and clus- 
tered behind in half curls. His eyebrows were black and 
slender like a black cord, and delicately arched over his 
large blue eyes, that looked almost black, so large were the 
pupils. They had the look of a child, and there was a 
childishness in his voice as he said: 

I must have come in here in the night — walked in my 
sleep again. I donT know what makes me walk in my 
sleep so. 1 do it every time old Mack operates on me,^^ he 
added, querulously, still rubbing his eyes. 

Don^t you talk that onrespectful way about Doctor 
McKenna. You^re ^clare er doin^ it before his face; and 
here^s a young lady come to see him, too. YouYe so near- 
sighted you ainT seen her.^^ 

She pointed to me, and the young man made a hurried 
but graceful bow. 

“ You come out now and git your breakfast, Albert, 
and leave the lady alone/ ^ said the black woman, speaking 
with authority. 

He had been about to leave the room, but when she 
spoke he stopped, looked at her with a flash of the eye, and 
said, sullenly: 

Ifll go out when I please. 

Doctor McKenna ainT a-goin^ to like it if you stay 
here talkin^; you know he ainT.^^ 

I donT care,^^ Albert said, seating himself. “ I am 
not his nigger — not yet. The lady will like to have me 
stay and talk to her, I know. 

He looked at me and smiled, showing his small, white 
teeth. I wondered at him. He had a man^s tall stature, 
but he talked like a child and was talked to as one by the 


MY OWN SIN. 


89 


old black woman. There must be something wrong; he 
must be of feeble mind, I thought. I wondered still more 
when the woman had gone out and left us alone. Albert 
looked iit me with the frank stare of a child. 

‘^You are pretty,^^ he said. ‘‘How old are you? 
Twenty your next birthday? Why, that^s my age. I 
wonder if we were born under the same star. I am born 
to great luck. 1 found it cut myself. 1 am to be rich 
and to marry a beautiful woman. 

“ Clearly he is weak-minded,^^ I thought; but the next 
moment he was talking knowingly on all the topics of the 
day, delivering his opinions upon political and social ques- 
tions. 

He had strong opinions on some subjects. He was in 
favor of socialism and communism. He sympathized with 
the Eussian nihilists. He gave ingenious reasons for his 
sympathy. He knew of every anarchist in America, it 
seemed. He talked about dynamite, and Greek fire, and 
the rights of the people with wonderful eloquence and 
rapidity, coming close to me, and finally throwing himself 
on a low, broad ottoman at my feet. 

I found he was not only familiar with all newspaper 
topics, but that he knew a good deal about history, ancient 
history particularly. He touched upon it in his rambling 
way, and spoke of Nero and other tyrants. 

“Do you know,^^ he said, leaning to me in a confiden- 
tial way, “ there are some men nowadays worse tyrants 
than Nero? They tyrannize over the mind, the very soul. 
Nero only played the despot over the body. Let me tell 
you,^^ he went on, leaning stilt nearer to me, “ McKenna^s 
a tyrant, a born tyrant. HeTl make a slave of your soul 
if you donT mind. YouTl want to run away from him 
and you can^t. Look out for him in time. A word to the 
wise. You understand. ^ ^ 

“ I didnT understand at all. The house seemed full of 
mysteries. I was told that I was expected by Dr. Me Ken- 


90 


MY OWN SIN. 


.1 


na, who had never heard of me, and now I was warned 
against him by one of his household. 

I don^t know Doctor McKenna at all/’ I said. Is 
he a relative of yours?^^ 

He held up his slender, blue-veined wrist. 

If there was a drop of his blood in these veins of mine 
l^d cut them open and let it out!’^ he said, passionately, 
his eyes emitting their strange flash. 

Then he hung his head. 

But I am his slave, he said. 1 wear his chain. 
ITl break it some day.^^ 

He sat for some time in silence, looking down, then he 
raised his head. The flash had died out of his face. His 
eyes looked listless, his cheek ashen white. 

These are all fancies of mine,^^ he said. Doctor 
McKenna is a good man. He^s kind to me. He^s my 
guardian. He takes care of my money and keeps people 
from cheating me. He took me away from some sort of 
school where they ill-treated me. He^'s going to get a 
fortune for me some day, and I will give half of it to him. 
Somebody else has got it now, but it ought to be mine by 
rights. Yes, Doctor McKenna is very good to me. He is 
doctoring me with the magnetic treatment. He says it 
keeps me alive. I^m not strong, you know. IVe never 
been able to study much, but I have read books, oh, lots 
of old books out in Texas, where 1 lived. I know Shake- 
speare and Milton and Shelley. 1^11 show, you what I like 
best in Shelley.'’^ 

He went to some shelves of books in a corner of the 
room and took down a volume of Shakespeare and read 
aloud some passages in Timon of Athens. He did not 
read them well. He was near-sighted, and he ran his 
words together, failing to give them their full force. 

“ Pshaw he exclaimed, flinging down the book, that 
sounds tame when 1 read. I wish I could hear you read. 
Your voice is sweet — like my mother’s. She’s the only 




MY OWN SIN. 91 

woman I ever heard read. Won^t you read something' — a 
few verses.^ 

Yes/^ I said. I had just taken up a volume of Mrs. 
Browning^s poems. On the fly-leaf was written From 
Elsie. So it was a gift to Dr. McKenna from Elsie 
Vaughn. The hook opened of itself at the sonnets, so 
called, Prom the Portuguese, which all the world knows 
were not from the Portuguese, but from Elizabeth Bar- 
rett’s own passionate heart, showing the growth of her love 
for the poet Browning. I turned to the one she had read 
to Gerald the morning after their marriage — yesterday 
morning. Was it only yesterday h It seemed a month of 
days. I had lived years of suffering since that marriage. 

I will read you this sonnet,” I said, prompted by the 
self-cruelty that makes us press upon a hurting sore or an 
exposed and aching nerve.. I knew every line of the poem 
would hurt me, yet I read it, and never, I think, was its 
feeling-fraught lines voiced with such passionate pathos. 

The boy Albert was entranced. After I had flnished he 
stood gazing at me like one spell-bound. At last he cried: 

Oh, read on! Your voice is like beautiful music. I ■ 
could listen to it forever. W'ould you sing for me? Come 
to the piano; 1 can play a little but 1 can’t sing. If you 
would sing, and look at me when you sing, I would think 
I was in heaven. Come, sing for me.” 

He seized my hand in his abrupt, child-dike way. His 
face was animated again, his eyes flashing wildly bright. 
As he repeated Come,” we heard a step outside, the rat- 
tle of a latch-key in the hall door. He dropped my hands 
instantly. The light passed out of his face; a look of 
dread, almost of terror, darkened over it. 

He bent his head quickly to my ear. 

‘‘It’s Nero! He’s coming!” he whispered. “Don’t 
let him put his chain upon you.” 

He darted through the dooi:*?»and left me bewildered. 

I picked up the volume that had dropped from my 


92 


MY OWN SIN. 


hand, and was replacing it on the shelf, when I heard a 
soft step enter the room. 

Before I could turn — a voice like no other I ever heard 
— a voice sweet, sibilant, said: 

“ Good-morning! You came earlier than I expected.’^ 

The book dropped to the floor in the start of surprise I 
gave. 

I turned, and was face to face with the man who had 
supported me when I fainted on the pier. 

I told you we should meet again,^^ he said, his cool, 
sea-green eyes looking me through and through. I ex- 
pected you to-day, but not so soon. 

You expected me to-day! Why?^^ I gasped, a species 
of terror taking possession of me. Albertis warning was 
still in my ears. 

Because I willed you to conie. Everything comes to 
us if we can only will it to come strongly enough. But sit 
down. You are trembling. Sit down and rest before you 
tell me why you came to see me.*^^ 

I felt as though he already knew why I had come, and 
all about me. I sat down in the chair he placed for me, 
and he came and stood near me. 

^^'Are you quite recovered?^^ he asked, putting his fin- 
gers upon my wrist. It was only a light professional 
touch, but it made me shiver. 

‘‘ Your pulse is still a little irregular. It beats fitfully,^^ 
he said. ‘‘ Your nerves are out of tune. You did not 
sleep well last night. 

I expected he would tell me why I did not sleep. His 
eyes had surely probed to the bottom of my soul; but I 
made an effort to control my face and voice, and answered, 
as quietly as I could: 

‘^No, I did not sleep well. I would be glad to have 
you give me a prescription for insomnia and nervousness. 
I have heard you highly spoken of by — I determined to 


MY OWN SIN. 


93 


carry out my purpose, and I looked him boldly in the face 
— “ by my friend, Miss Elsie Vaughn, now Mrs. Oldridge.''^ 

‘‘Ah, Elsie Vaughn is your friend! I have doubtless 
heard her speak of you.^^ 

“ Perhaps so. Like herself, 1 am from the South. My 
name is Monteagle.^^ 

“ Miss Monteagle?^^ 

“ Miss Monteagle. I went yesterday to see Mrs. Old- 
ridge off on the steamer. It was most sad to me — her 
going away — though it is on a wedding-journey. I am 
afraid I shall not see her again. 

He made no response, though my words were spoken in- 
terrogatively. I went on. I was determined now to carry 
out tho purpose of my visit in spite of these subtle, search- 
ing eyes. 

“ She is very feeble. I suppose. Doctor McKenna, it is 
a merp chance that she may live to come home?^^ 

“ There is no knowing, he said, after a pause. “ Noth- 
ing is more uncertain than life.^^ 

“ There is no knowing with certainty, perhaps; but sci- 
ence, the science you profess, is able to predict almost with 
surety. I want to ask you, as Elsie^s friend, for your 
frank opinion of her case. You are her physician. 

His face darkened. He made a quick, dissenting gest- 
ure and seemed about to say something impulsively, but he 
checked himself. 

“ I tv as her physician in Florida, he said. 

“ And you studied her case fully. You have estimated 
her chances for life — what are they? Your answer shall 
be regarded as sacredly confidential. 

He looked at me keenly. 

“ You are her friend, you say?^^ 

“ Yes, as 1 told you, we are both southerners. I know 
her antecedents — her family history. I take great interest 
in her fate. 


94 


MY OWN SIN. 


‘‘ Naturally/^ he said, still looking at me in such a way 
that it required all my self-control to face him. 

He dropped his eyes to the watch-charm he was twisting 
in his fingers — a curious onyx dragon^s head with emerald 
eyes. When he lifted them to mine again they had a 
queer glitter down in their yellow-green, depths. 

What if I told you Elsie Vaughn would die within a 
very few months he said. 

I dropped my lids to hide the flash of joy that came into 
my eyes. 

‘‘ That is a very sad verdict for a friend of Elsie's to 
hear/' I faltered. 

“ Very sad, indeed — for a friend to hear, as you say," 
he answered; and raising my eyes, startled at the stress he 
laid on the word friend, I caught the shadow of a satirical 
smile playing about his mouth. 

“Fortunately," he went on, slowly, “it is not true. 
Mrs. Oldridge will not die within a few months — unless 
something unforeseen occurs to hasten her demise." 

“ That is a relief " — I fear my tone belied my words — 
“ she will last longer, then? How long do you think?" 

“ What if I should tell you that she bids fair to live a 
full life-time — to recover — and be as well as any woman?" 

The sudden revulsion of feeling threw me off my guard. 

“ Then you will contradict your own words — your own 
professional opinion. You gave it that she could not re- 
cover," 1 cried, excitedly, “and that she was in the last 
stages of consumption. " 

“ I did not," he said. “ That was the verdict of the 
distinguished specialist — so styled " — with a scornful bit- 
terness — “ who was called in to see the case when Mrs. 
Oldridge took it into her head that my treatment was in- 
juring her niece. He pronounced Miss Vaughn's malady 
to be consumption — though she was not told so. 1 had 
diagnosed the disease differently." 

“ What was your diagnosis?" 


MY OWN SIN. 


§5 


Malarial poison — of long standing — aflEecting the blood, 
the liver, and, by sympathy, the lungs/^ 

And it will not prove fatal 

“ Once I thought it might; but now — with his intent 
eyes transfixing mine — now I am able to say to you that 
Elsie Vaughn will, in all probability, get well and sound; 
perhaps come back from her wedding-trip rosy, plump, 
and — beautiful. 

Significant, malicious enjoyment gleamed in his eyes. I 
was too stunned to care for its significance. For a second 
the room swam around me. I felt as though I should drop 
from the chair, and threw out my hand instinctively to 
clutch a support. It was caught in the cold, clammy 
fingers of the strange man who had risen and was bending 
over me. 

You are feeling faint again,^^ he said, his voice sound- 
ing far off. ‘‘ Smell this ammonia. 

I felt him put the vial to my nostrils; I pushed his hand 
violently away. Despair and angry bitterness swelled up 
in my heart and drowned all caution. 

“You have lied!^^ I cried, passionately. “You have 
willfully deceived in this matter! You told — one — that 
Elsie Vaughn would not recover — that she would die in. 
three months 1^^ 

He folded his arms and stood looking down at me. He 
was not the least angered by my passionate words. His 
swarthy face was as impassive as ever; only -the strange 
eyes emitted a flash of satisfaction. I felt that my secret 
was out — at least that he knew it was not for love of Elsie 
that I had come to him to ask concerning her fate. 

“ I did tell one person only what you have said,^^ he an- 
swered. “ That person was the man who married Elsie 
Vaughn. He gave his word of honor to me that he would 
never mention it, and he has told you. That is strange. 

“ Not so strange as that you should have deceived him 
— willfully, deliberately,^^ I said. 


96 


MY OWN SIN. 


I did deceive him, I admit ifc. It was done deliberate- 
ly and for a purpose. We are told in the so-called inspired 
Book to do evil that good may come of it. This was what 
Idid.^-’ 

What good did you expect would come of ifc?^'’ 

The breaking off of a marriage that I believed would 
not benefit Elsie Vaughn. I knew of the boy and girl en- 
gagement between her and young Oldridge. I saw him 
and studied him. He is not hard to read; but I have been 
deceived for the first time in my life in my estimate of a 
man. I would have sworn that this one was governed by 
the laws of what is called conscience — that he was high- 
toned — as it is styled. When he came to me, I believed 
from his tone and what I knew of his strait-laced ideas of 
right, that if I told him Elsie Vaughn was a dying girl he 
would not marry her. He felt himself in a manner bound 
to carry out his promise to her; but if she were hopelessly 
diseased, such a promise could not bind him. It would be 
too horrible and revolting a thing to wed a breathing 
corpse. ‘ The man may want this girEs fortune,^ I said to 
myself, ^ but he has not the nerve — the moral hardihood — 
to marry a dying woman for her money. The sequel 
showed I was wrong. He did have the nerve, or, if he did 
not have it himself, some one else supplied it. Some out- 
side stronger will influenced him to act contrary to his 
code of right. His look said plainly, That outside in- 
fluence was yours. ’ 

I had ceased to care what he thought. I was half mad 
with anguish and with fierce resentment toward this man 
who had deceived Gerald. 

“ And your motive for this misrepresentation?^^ I cried. 

I have told you what it was — regard for Miss 
Vaughn^ s, my patient^s, welfare. I believed that marriage 
with this young man would not agree with her. She is in- 
tensely devoted in her nature. Strong emotions would 




MY OWJST SIK. , 97 

exhaust her nervous system. That was my reason in part. 
There was another consideration.^^ 

Which was, no doubt, that marriage with you would 
have been less injurious. 

It loould have been — yes; there would have been less 
danger of exhausting emotions. It might have been even 
beneficial. 

Beneficial to you,^^ I sneered. 

He bowed. He was not the least angered. His face 
looked the same- — a mask of yellow marble — only his eye 
was alive, scintillant. 

And so your ruse failed of its purpose, I went on, 
carried along by the impulse of bitter feeling. Your 
falsehood failed of its effect — you lost the heiress and made 
a marriage that — 

‘‘That may turn out happily, though it was made for 
money. It seems to have had a happy effect so far on the 
lady. She looked really bright yesterday, did she not? 
You must be very much gratified to have seen her look so 
well; and what I have told you this afternoon about her 
chances for recovery must give you great pleasure, since 
you are such a good friend of the lady — and of her hus- 
band, perhaps. Is it so? You know liinvy you say?^"" 

“ I know him.^^ 

“ You know him, of course. A nice young man. If he 
married for money, he had a right to. Every human 
being has a right to better his condition by all safe means. 

He did not say honorable means. He had seated him- 
self by me. His face was close to me. His eyes seemed 
like two malicious, mocking, live things— impish souls — 
watching me from that impassive, swarthy face. 

I felt I should do or say some desperate thing if I re- 
mained a moment longer. The wild idea crossed my mind 
that I would tell him my secret and ask him to help me. 
It was only momentary, born of the subtle power of his 
look. I rose abruptly. 


98 


MY OWN SIN. 


I have taken up too much of your valuable time/^ I 
said. I will go at once. What do I owe you?^^ 

“ Nothing — not even an apology for telling me that I 
lied. I forgive you. Some day you may owe me some- 
thing. A big debfc^ perhaps. We shall meet again. 

Never I cried, and involuntarily I shuddered. 

He smiled with his eyes, and stroked his long black 
beard that shone with a curious metallic luster. Possibly 
it was dyed. 

We shall meet again — and often,^^ he repeated. “ It 
is fate. You do not like me. That does not matter. I 
do not care to have people lik-^ me. It is better to influ- 
ence them against their will. There is a piquancy in that. 
And you are not a common sort of girl. There are great 
possibilities in you. DonT fling them away for the sake of 
an emotion. No man living is worth such a sacrifice. Do 
the best you can with yourself. Make the most of your 
life and your gifts. If your heart comes in the way, tram- 
ple it down, silence it, kill it — as I did mine.'^^ 

He had caught my wrists in a tight grip, and leaning 
close to me looked at me. His looked dazed me. I stood 
motionless while he talked. 

You and I will be friends — must be friends, he went 
_ on. We may help each other some day. So donT burn 
your life out with emotion. Take care of yourself. Go 
now and eat a good breakfast. I can see by your looks 
you have had nothing. Then go home and go to bed. 
Take a spoonful of the contents of this vial — it is only 
bromo-cafleine — and sleep; shut your eyes, and banish, 
anxious thoughts, and sleep. That is my earnest advice. 
You won’t take it? You will give way to that wretched 
heart, that plays the mischief with women, until you are 
stretched on a bed of fever. Then you will send for me. ” 

Never!” I tried to say, but my lips barely moved. 
No sound escaped them. 

Or I will come without being sent for. Don’t fear, I 


MY OWK SIN*. 


99 


shall do you no harm. Your welfare is my interest 
Good-bye — until we meet 

He dropped my hand. I crept out of the office like a 
stricken, bewildered thing. W’hat manner of man was 
this? 

The appeal of that strange boy, Albert, rang in my ears: 

“ DonT jet him put his chain on you!^^ 

What was Dr. McKenna? What gave him such powers 
of discernment and intuition? W^as he a malignant being? 
Why had Elsie^s aunt refused to let him treat her longer? 
Was this cessation of his treatment the cause of her im- 
provement in health? Who was Albert? Was he a genius 
or an idiot? What was Dr. McKenna doing with him? 
What was the power he seemed to have over the boy, who 
disliked yet feared and obeyed him? 

How wildly thoughts and queries and conjectures gal- 
loped through my brain. Yes, Dr. McKenna was right: I 
had fever. My head was in a whirl, my cheeks were burn- 
ing. I almost tottered as I walked, and I dropped at last 
upon a seat under the trees of a square and sat there, soon 
forgetting to worry about the mystery of the house in 
Beekman Place in the absorbing torture of one thought. 
I had married my husband to a living woman, not a dying 
one. She would live, and he would learn to care for her 
and to forget me. No, no, that would never be. I was 
his own true wife, his only love. He had sworn it. I 
filled all his heart. There was room for no other. 

But how could he be my own again? How, without 
ruin, disgrace, a trial and a prison? He would never 
desert me, but how could he be all my own again? 


CHAPTER XIL 

I SAT there in the square, how long I can not tell. A 
strange languor overcame me. My head throbbed with a 
dull, aching sensation. The roar in the hot streets outside 


100 


MY OWN SIN. 


the little space of shade and coolness made by the trees of 
the square, sounded in my ears like the sea — the sea that 
was bearing my husband and his bride on its bosom. 

At last I was roused by an uneasy sensation — the feel- 
ing one has when one is being stealthily watched by a pair 
of human eyes. I raised my head and looked around« 
There were only a few persons beside myself sitting on the 
benches under the trees. These were mostly nurse-maids 
with children under their charge or a baby in its pretty car- 
riage, drawn up in the lengthening shadows of the trees. 
There were a few tired-looking men and some pale in- 
valids, breathing in the fresh air after the long, hot day. 
But who was it that had been gazing at me with such in- 
tentness as to rouse me from an abstraction that was 
almost stupor? Could it be that man with his head bent 
down over a book and his hat drawn over his eyes? 

He sat at some little distance from me. I could not see 
his face, but the lines of his figure, the look of his neck 
and head made me think of Dr. McKenna. Could it be 
that this man had followed me? He had said I was going 
to be ill, and certainly some abnormal physical condition 
was creeping over me. What was I to him that he should 
take an interest in me? How could I be of use to him or 
he to me, as he had said? He had helped to ruin my life. 
But for his falsehood, deliberately told, I might not have 
hugged the fatal delusion to my heart that Elsie would not 
recover. He had done this, as I believed, to break off her 
old engagement in the hope that he could succeed in get- 
ting her and her money for himself. He had done me this 
injury, and he had found out a part, at least, of my secret. 
He knew that I loved Gerald. Partly my swoon had be- 
trayed this to him, and partly he had drawn it out by his 
cunning questions and the subtle penetration of his eyes. 

He shall find out nothing more,^^ I said to myself. 
“ He nor any mortal living shall make me betray my secret 
— the secret that would consign Gerald to a prison — for 


MY OWK SIN. 


101 


my sin. I will never see this man again. I will never 
subject myself to the power of his glance — a supernatural, 
a baleful power — as I surely believe. 

And fearing that it might be he who sat across from me 
with his head bent and his wide crush-hat drawn over his 
face, I rose quickly and slipped away. 

How fearfully my head went round! When I reached 
my lodging-house the stairs seemed interminable. I clung 
to the railing, and when my room was gained I tottered 
past my mother, hearing her exclaim: 

Hilda, Hilda! what is the matter? Are you ill?’^ and 
fell upon my bed. 

I knew nothing more for days — nothing, I mean, of 
what passed around me. My soul wandered — its way lost 
— in some weird, horrible region of shadows and semi- 
darkness. 1 was fighting with phantoms, and then again 
with hideous shapes, whose long, hairy arms and clawed 
hands reached and clutched me as I struggled desperately 
on. Mocking voices and jeering laughter rang in my ears, 
snake-like eyes gleamed before and around me. 

Sometimes, as through a whirling mist, I caught a 
glimpse of the faces around me — my mother ^s, my little 
sister^'s, the ruddy, kindly face of our family doctor — now 
white and grave — but the glimpse was momentary and 
brought no sense of why those familiar faces hovered 
around me and why they looked so pale, so anxious and 
frightened. 

Once I heard a voice say, If she could only sleep! All 
depends upon tliat.'^^ And then a wailing prayer from 
my mother^s lips arrested my wandering sense for an in- 
stant. 

‘‘ God give her sleep. He who giveth sleep to His be- 
loved, send this blessed boon to my child. 

Why not pray for the deeper rest of death?^^ was my 
fleeting thought, and then the darkness and the phantoms 


103 


MY OWK SIN. 


gathered around me again, and I struggled with the fiends 
of the world of Delirium — the border-land of madness. 

Suddenly there came a sense of relief. The fiends 
ceased their torture, the dark shapes disappeared, the 
whirling clouds, the din — and the terror. It seemed" as 
though a voice low, sweet, but full of mastery, had spoken, 
and all the dark influences that warred with my being 
heard it and slunk away. 

Then a great calm fell upon me. They who watched 
me told me afterward that my wild, tossing movements 
ceased, my eyes lost their strained, dilated look, the lids 
fell, and 1 slept — the strange, magnetic slumber. 

The cause of the change was the power of one soul over 
another. While Dr. Martin and my mother and little Nell 
stood about my bed watching, in speechless anxiety, the 
progress of the fever — seeing it burn in my scorched 
cheeks and lips, and in my wide, dilated eyes — and pray- 
ing vainly that the all-saving sleep might descend upon me 
— -while thus they watched and prayed and despaired, a 
man entered the room. They had heard no knock — no 
step — so softly did he enter the hushed room, where only 
my labored breathing and occasional incoherent utterance 
were heard. 

The first they knew of his entrance was his appearance 
among them around the bed — a man with sallow, yellow 
skin, hair in straggling locks above his oily forehead, a 
long beard that nearly concealed his mouth, and greenish 
glasses that half hid his eyes. 

He bowed when he saw them looking at him, and said: 

“ This young woman came to see me the day she was 
taken ill. I knew she was going to have this fever. Brain 
and nerves are congested. She will die if she does not 
sleep. 

Of course — we know that,^^ Dr. Martin said, gruffly. 

But in her case opiates have failed. I can do no more.''^ 


MY OW]Sr SIIT. 


103 


Then I will try/^ said the man, and he pushed up the 
green glasses and looked at Doctor Martin for the first time. 

^MVho are you?^"' the physician asked, abruptly, struck 
by the strange look of the man^s eyes. 

am called McKenna — Doctor Erastus McKenna/^ 
answered the new-comer, as he seated himself by the bed 
and deliberately took off Ms glasses. 

Dr. Martin drew my wondering mother to the window 
and Said to her: 

‘ ^ He is a charlatan — a quack — regarded so by the pro- 
fession. He came here in charge of a wealthy young 
female patient, and he was dismissed by her relations be- 
cause regular physicians pronounced his practice mere 
quackery. He believes in laying on of hands, in magnet- 
ism, and I doiiT know what other isms. 

But if he can do Hilda any good — said my poor 
mother as my broken moans reached her from the bed. 

The doctor shrugged his shoulders. 

If,^^ he said, significantly. But we will let him. 
try,^^ he added. I am willing to try anything for her 
sake. 

The man seated beside the bed was waiting for no per- 
mission to try. He had bent over me and laid his fingers 
gently upon my forehead, stroking my brow, my head with 
long, light fingers soft as the silken touch of. the bat^s wing 
to the sleeper it would soothe. 

I resisted his soothing spell. I threw off his hands in 
my delirium, exclaiming that a snake was crawling over 
me. He persisted, using both hands now as he bent over 
me, his face intent, its muscles rigid, his eyes fixed upon 
me, drops of moisture standing on his knitted, concentrat- 
ed brow. 

At last he triumphed. My restless movements ceased 
gradually, my lids crept slowly together, and I slept. He 
breathed a low sigh of exhaustion and raised his head. He 
pale to ghastliness. 


104 


MY OWN SIN. 


I will let her sleep twelve hours/ ^ he said. To- 
morrow, at noon, I will come and waken her. Have some 
light nourishment ready for her to take.'’^ 

He bent his head slightly to my mother and the amazed 
doctor and left the room. 

It happened as he said. The next day at noon he came 
and found me still lying, like a breathiog statue, in that 
deep, saving slumber. 

He leaned over me. A motion of his hand, and my eyes 
opened, no longer dilated and wild in their gaze; the light 
of intelligent consciousness shone in them. But a thrill of 
dismay shot through me as I saw the face of Dr. McKenna 
— that face, like a swarthy mask with its small deep-set 
eyes, twin living intelligences looking out through narrow 
windows. 

Why have you come here*, unasked and unwanted?^^ I 
exclaimed, with the first impulse of fear and repulsion. 

He smiled, apparently nofc ill-pleased. My dear mother^s 
sense of gratitude was shocked by my exclamation. 

“ Darling, she said, bending over me, the tears stream- 
ing down her cheeks, this is the good doctor who gave 
you that sweet sleep. He has saved your life."’"' 

Saved my life? But what a price I must pay for it!^^ 
1 cried. 

My mother thought my words referred to the medical 
fee, but Dr. McKenna knew better. 1 saw it in his face. 
He understood what passed through me the instant 1 
opened my eyes and saw his face. 

I felt that somehow he had made my spirit obey him, 
and that, having made it serve him once, it would be easy 
to master it hereafter. 

He would use the power he had gained. He would use 
it to wrest my secret from me. I felt this instinctively. 

Why he wanted to know that secret I could not clearly 
understand, but it was for evil — this I felt. It was for evil 
to Gerald; and the strength of my love overpowered my 


MY OWK sm. 


105 


weakness of mind and body even in that moment of en- 
feebled powers and concentrated on the instant into the 
resolve: 

He shall not knowP^ 

I said this in the silent depths of my heart, and, as I 
said it, met his look. 

A flash of comprehension darted from beneath his lids. 
He guessed my thought, and his look and slight, slow, de- 
risive smile was like a challenge flung down to me. 

1 took the nourishment that he had ordered, and felt 
wonderfully better. When he had gone, saying he would 
come next day, I eagerly questioned my mother: 

Have you given that man the slightest hint that 1 was 
married I asked. 

K o, no, dear Hilda. Don^t be anxious on that score, 
she said. ‘‘ I have given you my solemn promise never to 
allude to your marriage. I think sometimes I was wrong 
to do this; but I will keep my promise, though it has cost 
me pangs of conscience more than once. I was obliged to 
tell this man a falsehood. 

‘‘ He asked you, then, if I was married?^^ 

^‘Yes.^^ 

And he asked if you knew Gerald 

No: he has had no time to ask me questions. He has 
only been here twice. I sat here, and he talked to me not 
two minutes. It was all about you. He only said, ‘ Your 
daughter has a fine constitution — that is in her favor. She 
is quite young, too. Did 1 not understand her to say she 
was or she had been married?^ Then he looked at me with 
his strange eyes, and I felt as though he were wrenching 
the truth from my heart. I had to call up all my nerve 
to look back at him calmly and tell what was not the 
truth. Oh, Hilda, 1 wish the necessity for this conceal- 
ment were at an end!^^ 

It will be, dear — it will be — after awhile,^^ I answered. 


106 


MY OWK SIK. 

^^Bufc we must be careful of this man. Was Nell in the 
room?^^ 

‘^No; Doctor Martin forbade her coming in while you 
were so sick. She could not help being frightened and 
crying/" 

Bring her to me presently. I feel better. It is the 
heat that made me sick. We must leave the city soon. 
We will go as soon as I am able to some quiet place in the 
country."^ 

Yes; Doctor McKenna said you must go. He told 
me he knew of a place — 

I will go to no place he suggests. He must not know 
when we are going, or where we go. Do ygu hear, moth- 
er I cried, vehemently. ‘^1 do not want to see him 
again. I will not see him alone, nor must you speak to 
him alone 

‘‘ Hilda!^^ She looked at me in surprise. 

I will tell you my reasons — some time. I am too weak 
now. I must rest, that 1 may get well soon and go away. 
Mother, tell me how long I have been ill.^^ 

‘‘ Five days.^^ 

It is six days since Gerald went away — too soon yet to 
hear from him. In two days more — Oh! 1 wish the two 
days were only a few minutes long!^^ 

I fell back on my pillow exhausted, and soon slept again. 

Two days later I was sitting propped up in bed. My 
strength was rapidly returning. I had a constitution that 
shook off disease as the priests of Buddha are said to shake 
off a serpent and the poison of its fangs. I had not seen 
Dr. McKenna since the turn in my malady. I was look- 
ing every moment for a dispatch from Gerald — listening 
for the step of the messenger. 

1 light knock fell upon the door. Come in,^^ I cried 
out, my heart giving a throb of expectation. 

The door opened. No boy in the blue uniform and cap 
of the telegraph messenger. The person who entered with 




MY OWH SIJ?-. 


107 


that light, panther tread, was Dr. McKenna. He came 
up to the bed and laid his fingers on my wrist. He looked 
into my face — and I nerved myself to give back his look 
firmly and defiantly. He should feel that he was not my 
master. 

I saw a shade of disappointment come into his face. He 
had not thought to feel my will resist his so strongly. He 
looked at me with a puzzled, clouded expression in his 
eyes. Perhaps he was doubting whether he had not drawn 
wrong conclusions after all. He pulled the greenish glasses 
over his eyes, and sat down and began to talk to my 
mother. Whenever he talked I forgot his eyes and my 
dread of them. His voice was music itself — sweet, with a 
melancholy, fiute-like sweetness, full of subtle infiections 
and cadences. 

I lay and drank in the melody of his voice. A knock 
on the door aroused me. This time it was the blue-capped 
messenger with my looked-for cablegram. I forgot all dis- 
cretion, and seized and tore open the envelope with trem- 
blingly eager fingers. The message was brief: 

Arrived safely. Have written. Be good to yourself. 
Yours only.-’ ^ 

No name, but none was needed. 

Yours only.^^ The two words were as cool water to 
one fainting with thirst. He had crossed the Atlantic with 
that other woman, whom the world believed to be his wife, 
and still he was mine only. 

I had forgotten the presence of Dr. McKenna. As I 
looked up, I met his eye fixed upon me. I was deeply 
annoyed at the way I had betrayed excitement and eager- 
ness. He knew it was a cablegram 1 had received. The 
messenger had said it was, and he could see the envelope. 
He had doubtless guessed who it was '^from, and he had 
seen the joy that sparkled in my face. 

Let me suggest that you lie down now and be quiet,^^ 


✓ 


108 


MY OWIST SIl!5r. 


he said, presently. Good news is exciting as well as bad 
news. Am I right in fancying that your cable message is 
from your dear friend, Mrs. Oldridge?^^ 

I felt the blood ebb from my heart. I glanced at my 
mother, and met her wondering look. 

‘"‘Mrs, Oldridge!^^ was the utterance I saw trembling on 
her lips. 1 checked it by suddenly crying out, as though 
a violent pain had seized me, and putting my hand to my 
head. In an instant my mother was on her feet and bend- 
ing over me, appealing anxiously to Dr. McKenna. He 
helped me to remove the propping pillows, and laid me 
down gently, answering my mother with suave solicitude, 
though I saw and comprehended the shadow of a derisive 
smile that hovered about his bearded mouth. 

I will get away from him. 1 must get away some- 
where out of his reach, was my resolve. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

I CONVALESCED rapidly. In a few days I was able to be 
up. I consulted the newspapers and found among the ad- 
vertisements one of a place I thought would just suit us. 
It was in Orange County, a short run out of the city, a 
mile from the railroad station. I took the train and ran 
out to look at it, taking Nell with me. 

How delighted she was to get out into the green, beauti- 
ful country. She kept her little curly head out of the 
window all the time, going into ecstasies over the daisies, 
the cows, standing knee-deep in lush grass, and the farm- 
houses with outlying fields and orchards, and hens with 
broods of little chickens scratching away in the barn-yard. 

I had said to myself I was sure to be disappointed about 
the place I had come to see. Everybody was disappointed 
who put faith in an advertisement. But for oiice there 
was no disappointment, only a happy surprise, for the 
farm building was an old revolutionary house^ picturesque 


MY OWK SIK. 


109 


and time-stained, with peaked gables literally mantled in 
'Virginia creeper. It had a large yard full of old trees, a 
view of mountain-tops lofty enough to catch the gleam of 
breaking day while yet the lower lands were in the shadow 
of night. 

There were woods near at hand — cool, deep woods, with 
a stream running through them between banks of gray 
rocks seamed with green moss. Further on was an old 
niill, the long motionless wheel broken and mossy. 

I never saw a creature so charmed as was^ Nell. The 
old farmer showed her a pony, a venerable, sedate-looking 
creature, which he said she could ride, and a hen and 
chickens that she could have if she would feed them, and a 
little garden corner which she might claim as hers, with 
all the pinks and marigolds and the sweet-smelling thyme 
that bordered it. 

We made arrangements with the farmer for coming out 
immediately and taking possession of his two best rooms. 
He drove us to the station in his market-wagon, through 
the cool of the summer afternoon, and bade us a hearty 
good-bye, promising to be at the station to meet us the 
next day but one. 

The appointed time found us at the old Mill House, 
with such of our household goods as I had not stored for 
the summer, and with Nell happy and mamma bewildered 
at the celerity of my movements. My dear, good mother; 
she did not dream that I was running away from the city 
to escape the keen eye and abnormal insight of one who 
was houncfing my closely hidden secret. 

It was one of the sad circumstances of my fate that I 
could not ask sympathy of any one — even of my mother — 
no one but Gerald; and he — was the time coming when he 
might feel for me, but no longer luitli me? Sometimes the 
fear came to me like a prophecy. 

My mother thought I had almost every reason to be 
happy, I was no longer worried about money. 1 had no 


110 


MY OWK SIN. 


longer to cut and stitch in Miss Nipper^s work-room. It 
is true Gerald was away; but he, would soon return, and 
then — as I had told her — our marriage would be declared. 
Of the gulf of sin and dread into which we two had 
plunged — through my ambition — my mother had no 
dream. Her mind had been greatly weakened by her past 
troubles and sickness. She was like a sweet-tempered 
child — easily made happy — with no anxiety for to-morrow; 
satisfied if she had her simple meals, her little walk with 
Nell, and her chair brought out on the shady piazza where 
she could sew, or read the novels she delighted in. 

I thank God she never knew the burden I was bearing — 
the tumult that went on in my breast. 

1 was feverishly eager to hear from Gerald. His letter 
came promptly by the next steamer — two weeks after he 
had sailed. It was as full of love and tender thoughtful- 
ness as the most ardent heart could desire. He said little 
about his voyage except that they had had smooth sailing 
and pleasant weather. 

He made plans for me; urged me to make myself com- 
fortable in every way, to spend without stint the money he 
had put in bank for my use, to cultivate my voice, if I 
could find a good teacher in the city or at some of the near 
summer resorts, to have nice dresses made, take my 
mother and Nell to the country or by the sea -shore, 
‘‘ where you can have fresh air and nice bathing. Take a 
sweet rest there, dear Hilda. Bead, sketch, and write 
some more lovely little poems like the last you sent me. I 
want you to keep up your spirits. I can’t be^' to think 
that you are staying at home drooping, while I am seeing 
all these fine sights in the old world you longed to see. If 
1 could have you at my side, what a pair of jolly comrades 
we would be!” 

There was more in the same strain. My own dear boy, 
how tenderly he wrote to his little wife! I kissed the let- 
ter, and my tears threatened to blot its pages. 


MY OWN SIN. 


Ill 


If I could have you at my side!^^ Ah, how blessed if 
it could be so, I thought, and then suddenly it occurred to 
me that Gerald had not said one word in his letter about 
the woman who had in truth been at his side. Elsie^s 
name had not fallen from his pen. He wrote: 

We had a pleasant voyage, the sea smooth as glass, 
except during two days. No event broke the monotony 
except the usual seasickness.^^ 

Not a word of her — his bride of a week — she whose love 
for him was so strong that it had called her back from the 
grave. He had had her at his side all the time, her hand 
had rested on his arm, her head against his shoulder. 
How had he felt toward her? How had she borne the trip? 
Was it possible she had felt only the usual seasickness?^^ 
I know the source of the disappointment that came^over 
me as I again read the letter in which there was no refer- 
ence to Elsie. It made me shudder at myself. I realized 
that I had cherished the hope this letter would speak of 
Elsie^s illness, would say that she had not been able to 
stand the voyage, that she was worse. But there was no 
word with special reference to Elsie. 

‘^Our party was only seasick for the first three days, 
after that we were on deck all the time,^^ Gerald had writ- 
ten. 

In Eis after letters the same reticence was apparent. 
He wrote often. He wrote amusingly, interestingly — 
always with affection and tenderness, but he made no allu- 
sion to the future as connected with Elsie. He avoided 
mentioning her name. 

At length I could stand it no longer. I upbraided him 
with his want of frankness. 

Tell me all,^^ I wrote. I know you feel how miser- 
ably anxious I am. How is Elsie? What is the state of 
her health? Tell me truly. 

He answered my question in his next letter, but there 


112 


MY OWK SIK. 


was constraint and reluctance apparent in his reply — at 
least I thought so. 

‘^Elsie^s health is very uncertain. She seems much 
brighter and stronger upon some days than she does on 
others. There is no saying with any positiveness whether 
she is improving or not. 

You understand^ I know, my dear Hilda, why I do 
not like to write of her. I do not like to think of the 
wrong 1 have done her. It makes me miserably remorse- 
ful. I would to God 1 had never crossed her path. But I 
will not write in this way. It only makes you unhappy, 
and it does no good now to regret what has been done. 
All we can do is to wait, and to try to avoid as much as pos- 
sible the consequences of our deed. To this end, remem- 
ber, we agreed to destroy each other’s letters— to burn 
each dhe when it had been read. Do not forget this pre- 
caution, dear Hilda. Destroy my letters — every one — as I 
destroy yours. I find it hard to burn these dear little 
messages that seem all alive with you^ but I compel my- 
self to watch them burned to ashes or I tear them in 
fine bits.’^ 

I destroyed his letters in the same way. Of course there 
was too much risk in keeping one of them. I had a constant 
dread that McKenna might find me — might come and es- 
tablish himself here in this peaceful spot, where I was try- 
ing to calm myself and cool the hot pulses of my passion- 
ate being. 

The long summer days went by. I passed them in read- 
ing, in studying French and in writing to Gerald. I tried 
to carry out his wish about cultivating my voice. I ad- 
vertised for a teacher and got several replies. I called at 
the address of the one whose reply had pleased me best. 
She was a broken-down singer, whose voice had once led 
the choir in a fashionable church, and had been applauded 
in concert halls. She strained the fine organ and ruined 


MY OWN SIN. 


113 


ifc. She lived now in obscurity — a pale, saddened but 
most interesting woman — and supported herself by giving 
lessons in music and singing. 

She told me I had an excellent voice. 

Ah, how strong and rich it is!^^ she cried, clasping 
her delicate hands. ^^It is a mezzo soprano. I will take 
delight in training it. 

It was arranged that I should come into the city twice a 
week to take lessons of her. She lived far up-town in one 
of the large apartment houses in Harlem. So I had no 
fear of meeting Dr. McKenna. 

In New York you rarely meet any one you know unless 
you walk often upon Broadway. But I did not take in ac- 
count the many currents and under-currents that draw 
human beings together. 

One day, on entering Mrs. Waders little parlor, 1 found, 
seated at the piano, Albert, the handsome strange young 
man I had seen in Dr. McKenna^s office. When he saw 
me his countenance beamed with delight. He jumped up 
from his seat at the piano and ran to me. 

^^Oh! lady with the sweet voice!’^ he cried: ‘‘I am so,, 
happy tO' see you. 1 was afraid I should never see you 
any more — though Mephistopheles said I would. Old Mack 
is Mephistopheles, you know. That straight lock of hair 
that stands up on the top of his head is his cock^s feather 
— Mephistopheles^s feather. Am I his Faust, do you 
think? May lie so, for 1 canT get free from him. No 1 
canT,^^ shaking his head. Be my Marguerite, and beg 
me to shun that wicked man, as Marguerite did, and Vll 
mind you. I wonT be a fool, like Faust. Here I am 
chattering, and you standing up. Sit down. Marguerite, 
and read another little poem for me. Here is one^ I 
have written— to you. DonT you see, ^ To the Sweetest 
Eyes. ’ Ah! don^t read it yet. Let me play this waltz for 
you. The music came to me in a dream, I saw a moonlit 
sea, with white waves rolling, and spirits dancing on the 


114 


MY OWN SIN. 


tops of the waves, and singing, with hands intwined. I 
got up in the night and played the dance-song I had heard 
in my dream. Come, 1 will play it for you. How happy 
I am to see you again 

He talked so rapidly, holding my hands and swinging 
them as he talked, smiling into my face with his beautiful 
soft eyes and his child-like mouth, that I was bewildered. 
At last I half gasped: 

Where is Doctor McKenna?^^ 

He has gone into the next room to cure Mrs. Wade. 
She has a terrible pain in her head. He will charm it 
away — Mephistopheles can charm away pain — but he leaves 
something in its place — something, I don^t know what — 
he put his hand up to his head in a bewildered way. He 
left something here with me. I am not j^s I was. It isn^t 
the same me. It^s his chain — I call it that. It draws you 
back to him. I have tried to go aw"ay and be somebody. 
It’s in me to hew myself a path in the world, but — I come 
back to him — and then I lose all ambition; I^m satisfied to 
be his poodle-dog — he ended his speech with a half sob, 
shaking his head and setting his teeth together. 

Then he became quiet and sat motionless on the piano- 
stool, his face downcast and dejected. A noise behind me 
made me turn around. There stood Dr. McKenna. He 
evinced no surprise at seeing me. He bowed with a fine, 
stately grace, and did not even extend his hand to me. He 
said: 

‘‘Our friend, Mrs. Wade, is not well, I am sorry to say. 
The pain in her head has been relieved and she is asleep.'” 

“ Then you know Mrs. W^ade?” I managed to say. 

“ Mrs. Wade is an old acquaintance. I have heard her 
sing in her nightingale days. Ah! she had a throat of sil- 
ver. It was a joy to sing with her.'’^ 

“ With her? Do you, too, sing?” 

I wondered if he, too, had been upon the concert stage. 


MY OWK SIN. 115 

1 am said to sing fairly well. Eh, Albert?^^ going up 
to the boy and laying a hand upon his shoulder. 

The young man started out of his abstracted mood. He 
made a gesture as though he would shake McKenna ^s hand 
from his shoulder, but at the same instant he looked up 
and met the doctor^s eye. A curious cowed -look came into 
Albertis face. He smiled a vacuous, timid smile. 

This young lady wished to know whether I can sing,^^ 
said Dr. McKenna. 

Sing? The devil can not sing so sweetly/^ the boy 
said, in all seriousness. 

Dr. McKenna smiled. 

Nor could Pan play as well as Albert can — though all 
untaught and knowing no note of music. Play some of 
your dream music for us, Albert. 

“lam tired, he said, sullenly, 

“Play.^^ 

The one word was softly uttered, but it had in it a tone 
of commanding intensity. Albert turned at once to the 
piano and began to play. He was soon absorbed in his 
own music. He played very sweetly, with a touch light 
and expressive. The melody that dropped from his slender, 
girl-like fingers was weird and wild as the dance of waves 
on a windy moonlit sea. But I could not, listen to it in 
peace. I was longing to get away. 

At length Mrs. Waders small servant lifted the 'portiere 
and beckoned to Dr. McKenna. He rose and went into 
the next room. 

Now was my chance. I jumped up noiselessly and glid- 
ed out of the room, ran down the four flights of stairs 
rapidly and was in the street. 1 congratulated myself that 
Mrs. Wade did not know where I lived. I had never told 
her. 1 would not come to her house again. 1 would get 
some other teacher now that this man had found his way 
here. 

As I was hurrying along the street on my way to the 


116 


MY OWK SII^. 


station I heard a quick step behind me. Before I could 
turn around Albert was at my side. 

‘‘Oh, Marguerite!^^ he cried, breathlessly, “you were 
running away from Mephistopheles — that^s right; but you 
were running away from Faust, and that is wrong. You 
must take him with you. You must help him to break his 
chain. Marguerite, I am going home with you. 

“Oh, no, Albert,^^ 1 cried in dismay. “ Your guard- 
ian, if he is your guardian, will follow us and find you, 
and be angry. 

“ Let him be angry. He isn^F as hurtful when he is 
angry as when he seems to be in a sweet humor. But he 
won^t find us if we hurry. Here is the ‘ L ^ station. The 
cars take us to the railway depot, don^t they?^^ 

He seized my hand in his slim, supple fingers and fairly 
bore me along. He was laughing, but his eyes were eager 
and earnest. 

“ You are running away with me, aren^t you. Margue- 
rite?^^ he asked, when we were at last breathlessly seated 
in the cars, just as the train moved away from the sta- 
tion. 

I was greatly worried. I knew nothing of this erratic 
young man, not even his name, only that he was a most 
interesting an^ innocent creature to look at. People, as 
we passed, turned to look at him. His face, with its pure 
pallor, and large blue eyes, and delicate, regular features, 
his mouth, sweet as any girFs, with a lovely curve of chin 
and throat beneath, was set off by his long, slightly curl- 
ing golden hair. 

What manner of being was he? Was he only very eccen- 
tric, or was he wrong in his head, either from a defect of 
nature or some malady of the brain that Dr. McKenna 
was trying to cure? Where had he been brought up? Not 
in any city, or where he saw people and mixed with them. 
I could tell that by his ignorance of every sort of convem 
tion, 


MY OWK SOT. 


117 


His ease of manner was the ease of an unconscious child. 
How was he going to act? What would my mother — what 
would the people of the farm-house — think of my bringing 
him there, a young man — he was tall enough for a man, 
though he looked so boyish — who called me Marguerite 
and clung to my hand? 

But my apprehensions on this score were relieved. After 
we were seated in the cars Albert behaved as quietly as 
need be. He looked about him with pleased interest, but 
that did jaot matter. 

When we reached the railroad depot he bought his ticket 
— I had mine already — and found a seaj; for us. 

He enjoyed the ride out across the country keenly, but 
he made no extravagant demonstrations. It is true he 
quietly possessed himself of my hand, which 1 was afraid 
to withdraw, he seemed such a child. I made an attempt 
to do it, and he looked at me with a hurt surprise. 

“ Don^t you like me. Marguerite? Are you mad with 
nie?^^ he asked. 

1 was afraid of some demonstration, so I let my hand 
stay in his. Nobody knew us. They would think he was 
my brother. 

When we reached the railroad station, with the little vil- 
lage clustering about it, there seemed nothing for us but 
to walk to the farm-house, a mile away, for I was not ex- 
pected to return so early. 

Albert, however, looked around and found a conveyance 
— a rather rusty cab — but the horse was stout and spirited, 
and we rattled over the hills in lively style. 

My comrade laughed gleefully. 

If old Mack could see us!^^ he cried. WonT we have 
a nice time here in the country. Can you ride horseback? 
ITl see if there are any horses hereabouts.'’^ 

I could not help catching something of his gay spirits. 
He was like a bird set free from a cage. A practical ques- 
tion troubled me however. 


118 


MY OWN SIN. 


But how can you stay here, Albert?^^ I asked. You 
have no clothes with you — and — have you any money?^^ 

‘^Money?’^ he laughed. Lots of it sewed into the 
waistband of my trousers. You see I’ve outwitted old 
Mephisto. I’ve been saving up my pocket allowance. He 
gives me plenty of it. He’s generous enough, though it’s 
all mine, after all. He knows I like to throw dimes to the 
street boys and the organ players, and to buy books and 
fruit and candy. He gives me money whenever I ask for 
it, and he thinks I spend it all, but I’ve been saving it, and 
1 managed to turn all the small change into bills, and I 
stitched them in my waistband. I can pay my board and 
buy me some clothes — don’t you fear. Then when I run 
out I’ll call upon old Mack. I shall have broken my chain, 
may be, if you will help me. Marguerite,” with an ap- 
pealing look. 

‘‘ I wish you would tell me what you mean?’^ 

I wish I could,” he answered, putting his hand to his" 
head and sighing wearily, his whole face changing. ‘^I 
wish I knew. I can’t understand it. I was delicate from 
my birth. I had a spinal trouble. Doctor McKenna 
undertook to cure me after my mother died. She would 
never let him while she lived. She kept me out of his 
sight. I believe she hated him, and he had just made her 
marry him. ^ Conjured her into it,’ my old black mammy 
said. Old mammy Johanna believed he was the cause of 
my father’s death. 

He doctored him in his last sickness, and when he had 
been dead only six months he married my mother. She 
was beautiful — a little, Spanish-looking beauty, with the 
whitest skin and blackest eyes you ever saw — but I don’t 
think he cared for that. She had money, and they all 
thought she would have more when my grandmother died. 
My grandmother was very rich; but when she died she left 
it all to a grandchild^ she had never seen — a sickly girl. 
Doctor McKenna said. I was a child, but I remember 


MY OWN SIIS". 119 

how he looked when he heard about the will. He looked 
like a devil, Marguerite. His eyes were like live devils. 

‘‘After that my mother drooped. I think he was un- 
kind to her in secret, or he exerted some kind of evil in- 
fluence over her. She kept me away from him. I lived 
with my governess and her mother in an out-house — a lit- 
tle cottage on the place. I lived there until a year ago. 
Doctor McKenna came and brought me away. I was with 
him in Florida, in an old house by the sea. He had a rich 
patient there he was attending. I never saw her or heard 
her name, but he was with her a great deal. He came 
with her here, I believe; then he went back and brought 
me. I have* only been here a few months. He says he is 
curing me with his magnetic treatment. May be so; I 
don^t have such strange spells as I used to have. But 
he has made me like a nigger slave. Marguerite. He^s got 
such a mastery over me — 1 do everything he wants me to. 
I never go anywhere by myself. He doesn^t permit me to 
go; and I feel as helpless without him as a crippled man 
without his crutch. But IVe been making up my mind 
to run away from him; and ever since 1 saw you and heard 
your voice — oh, your beautiful, kind voice! — l\e wanted 
to get you to help ^me go away and keep away from him. 
If I could only throw off his cursed spell — he threw up 
his arms, and his forehead contracted under his curls — “ I 
will, if you’ll help me!” he exclaimed, and then he 
laughed. 

“ That fellow that’s driving thinks I’m crazy,” he said, 
and he forthwith began talking to the man of the country 
of crops and horses, and showed himself so well informed 
that the shock-head, freckle-faced countryman told him he 
was the “ knowingest city chap he had struck.” 

We soon reached our destination, and alighted in front 
of the house. When my landlord came out I had a mo- 
ment of embarrassment, but Albert soon relieved it. I 
was infinitely surprised at the matter-of-fact way in which 


120 


MY OWK sm. 


he informed Mr. Grey that he had heard his house spoken 
of as a pleasant boarding-place, and had come out to see it. 
He was delighted with its appearance, and would engage 
board for a week at once. He could get his baggage at 
any time. He introduced himself as Albert JElaii, a stu- 
dent of music; said that he had had ‘^'the pleasure of trav- 
eling out from the city in this young lady^s company,^^ 
and ended by paying his board for a week in advance. In 
this way he relieved me of all responsibility for his appear- 
ance here or his future conduct. 

Albert Elan is not mad,^^ was my thought. Queer 
and erratic though he may be, he has the instincts of a 
gentleman. 

He proved it in his daily life at the cottage. He was 
strange in many of his actions and habits. He had fits of 
gloom and silence when he would not talk at all, and 
could only be soothed by my reading or singing to him. 
But he was a gentle creature, fond of children and ani- 
mals, and tender-hearted and generous to a fault. You 
could not help loving him, though you often had to laugh 
at him and sometimes to weep for him, for he was a 
stricken creature, delicate in health and suffering from 
some strange, nervous malady. 

He had once a singular seizure — a kind of cataleptic fit 
— which left him flaccid and melancholy. 

Before this came on he was depressed, and once he looked 
at me wildly and whispered, with a short, convulsive 
laugh : 

I wish old Mephisto were here now. He^d set me 
right. 

But he was haunted with the dread that Mephisto, as he 
called him, would find him. 

He was nervous when he heard the sound of wheels or a 
step behind us, as we walked in the garden with little Nell 
clinging to his hand. She was very fond of him. 


MY SIK. 


121 


He^ll come some day/^ he said. 
And the prophecy proved true. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

He came unexpectedly. As the days went by without 
a sign from him^ we began to hope that he would not find 
us. Albert grew brighter and less fitful in his moods. A 
faint color came into his cheeks, and his appetite im- 
proved. He still eat hardly enough for a bird. Meat he 
would not touch. I have seen him shudder when a plate 
of rare roast beef was pressed upon him. He would make 
a meal of wild berries in the woods and be satisfied. And 
his only drink was water. 

He turned the farmer^s fattening chickens out of the 
coop on the sly, and when he went fishing he sat by me 
under the poplar-tree that overhung the creek, holding his 
rod in a careless manner while he read Shelley in snatches 
aloud to me. I noticed he got no bites, and presently 
found out the reason. He did not have his hook baited. 

It was horrible, he declared, to transfix a live worm with 
a hook. And as for the fish, the first perch I caught I un- 
knowingly asked him to take it off the book. I had land- 
ed it triumphantly on the grassy bank. It was fiuttering 
frantically. He obeyed. He drew the hook gently out of 
the gills of the yellow-breast,'’^ and put the fish back in 
the water. 

Why did you do that?^^ I asked. 

He laughed, and then seeing my vexed look, he came 
and threw himself on the grass at my feet and took my 
hand. 

Hilda, he said, you sha^n^t be a murderess — the 
slayer of a little yellow perch, made to flash through the 
water like a sunbeam. I sent the little golden-breast back 
to his poor scared sweetheart. They were making love 
here in the shadow of the poplar-tree when your treacher- 


122 


MY OWK siisr. 


ous bait tempted him. Hilda, with the brown, sw^eet eyes, 
don’t look as though she could be so cruel. She can’t 
catch any more fish. I’ve pulled the horrid hook off and 
thrown it away. I’m afraid,” he went on, holding my 
hand hard, and looking up at me earnestly with his sea- 
blue eyes — I’m afraid she might learn to play that game 
upon something that wasn’t cold-blooded like the fish — 
something warm and throbbing — like this,” and he put my 
hand suddenly over his heart. 

It would have been like love-making in anybody except 
Albert. But in him it seemed only a graceful, fanciful 
child’s way of talking and acting. 

He would say such things to me before my mother and 
Nell, and before the farmer and his wife. I never took 
them seriously. Even my mother said it was only Albert’s 
way; he was no more capable of passion than a boy of 
twelve, or the soulless brownie of the green wood. 

It was a mistake; Albert Elan, under his irresponsible, 
child-like seeming, had a slumbeidng second nature of hot, 
wild, unreasoning passion, like others of his strange type — = 
creatures possessed of gifts bordering on genius — but with- 
out balance. Gifted cranks they are called, magnetic, 
winning, yet beings to be dreaded, for usually there is 
somewhere in their natures the hidden dynamite, though 
the fatal spark may never reach it. 

But of this in connection with Albert I never dreamed. 
He was a lovable boy, whose changing moods and queer, 
fanciful sayings interested and amused me — that was all. 
I pitied him because of his delicate frame, the strange spot 
of unsoundness in his mind, his lonely condition — without 
kindred or home-ties, except this guardian step-father, 
whom he feared and disliked. I wondered whether 
McKenna’s influence ^ver him were for good or for bad. 

If his mesmeric or magnetic treatment controlled the 
cataleptic seizures at the time they occurred, did they not 


MY OW]S^ SIK. 


128 


do more harm, on the other hand, by weakening his nerv- 
ous force and making him subservient to the doctor ^s will? 

Undoubtedly he grew less nervous and excitable. His 
eyes exhibited less often that wild, dancing glimmer which 
gave them at times a fascinating but fearful beauty. 

It is because he is out here in the good, wholesome 
country that he improves so. I can see it every day,^^ said 
my good mother, who took a maternal interest in the boy 
almost from the first. He would sit on the steps of our 
little porch and lay his head against her knees, begging 
her to smooth his hair, and let him try to fancy it was his 
mother. 

But I felt somehow that Albertis improvement was due 
to his being away from Dr. McKenna. 

I shall be sorry when he finds him,^^ I thought, or 
when Albert is forced through want of money to let him 
know where he is.^^ 

Albert declared he would never go back and live under 
his surveillance again. He was getting strong enough to 
break the chain, he said. He was getting more will-power 
and more physical strength every day. He could support 
himself until he came of age. He would write sonnets to 
my eyes, and if he could not get pay for them, why, he 
would borrow a hurdy-gurdy and grind it on the street 
corner, or play monkey and pass around the cap. 

In a year he would be of age, and then he would build a 
house with acres of roses around it on some fair island in 
the South, and mother and I and little Nell should live 
with him, and we would have a pleasure-boat and go sail- 
ing every day, and I should sing as we glided over the 
waters. 

He would talk this way, prattling on for an hour, and 
charming mother and Nell by his extravagant poetical 
pictures of what he would do when he came into his fort- 
une. 

And oh, if only he could get that other great fortune of 


124 


MY OWN SIN. 


nearly half a million that had been promised to him by his 
grandmother, and then she had willed it away from him — 
horrid old woman ! — to a grandchild she had never seen — a 
puny girl that might die. He thought it was better she 
should die and let his grandmother^s money come to him — 
for he knew so well how to spend it. After we had our 
island palace and the acres of rose garden and the pleasure- 
boat, he would build a home for ill-treated step-children, 
where they should have everything to make them happy. 

A thought flashed through my mind as he spoke of the 
sickly girl-cousin who had inherited the fortune that was 
to have been his. 

What is the name of your grandmother^s heiress?^^ I 
asked. 

‘‘ Oh, she has a pretty name, though she^s not pretty 
herself; she^s a spiteful little cat, and she hates me — old 
Mack told me so when I wanted to see her. 1 have never 
seen her — and never will see her now, since she feels that 
way to me just because — so Doctor McKenna says — she 
thinks my mother poisoned grandmother^s heart against 
her father. Grandmother would never see him, but it was 
because he did not marry the woman she had chosen for 
him.^'' 

Bufc the girDs name? You have not told me.^"* 

Haven ^t I? It is Elsie — Elsie Vaughn. My mother^s 
family name is Vaughn. 

Elsie Vaughn! 

After the first startled utterance of that name 1 was 
silent through the rush of thought and conjecture. Here, 
then, was the secret of Dr. McKenna^s interest in Elsie 
Vaughn! If she had died, her large fortune would have 
passed to this boy, his step-son. He was Albertis guardian 
and the master of Albertis will — as well say, then, that the 
fortune would have been Dr. McKenna^s own. 

Evidently Albert did not know his cousin was married, 
or even that she had been in New York. Dr. McKenna 


ur owK SIN. 


125 


had kept him in ignorance of her proximity, and he had 
given him a false idea of Elsie. He had had his reasons 
for not wanting friendly and confidential relations to be 
established between the two cousios. 

And then there came to me the suspicion which had-be- 
fore made its way into my mind, that Elsie^s ill health 
might have been owing, in part at least, to the peculiar 
treatment of her physician. What if he had purposely 
been undermining her health and Albertis? No need for 
drugs in his case. He understood how to drain the life 
forces by more subtle and insidious means. 

Was Dr. McKenna, then, a murderer — a deliberate mur- 
derer of innocence for mercenary motives.^ 

As the question shaped itself in my mind, I saw a 
shadow fall across the moonlit walk in front of the door. 

We were sitting on the porch, enjoying the moonlight 
and the balmy air of the summer night. 

Albert and Nell sat on the steps — my mother in her low, 
easy-chair beside them. Albert’s arm was thrown across 
her lap. On the other side of him the child was sitting in 
her white frock, with the moonlight on her fair, eager 
face. She was leaning her elbow on Albertis knee, look- 
ing up into his face with wide eyes, for he had launched 
into a wonderful story of a spider and a dirt-dauber.^^ 
I had caught the drift of that story even whiJe my thoughts 
were busy with conjectures about Dr. McKenna, for the 
story was relevant to the ideas that spun themselves in my 
brain. The boy was embodying in it his belief about the 
man who had enslaved him. 

Is it wrong to kill a spider?^^ he began. 

He had stopped Nell from crushing under foot a green 
spider she had shaken from a flowered branch of the honey- 
suckle that covered the porch. 

Yes, indeed, it is wrong. ni tell you how I was pun- 
ished for killing a spider once when 1 was a little girl like 
you. I was turned into a spider all in a minute — a green 


126 


MY OWK SIIT. 


spider, with four legs and two little eyes like specks of a dia- 
mond. I found myself in the heart of a big magnolia 
flower. , Oh, I thought it was fine to have a palace with 
walls of perfumed ivory and a gold throne in the middle; 
but presently I heard a great buzzing, and in flew a long- 
bodied creature with shining wings and long legs — a dirt- 
dauber. Do you know him?^^ 

“Oh, yes!^^ cried l^ell. “He makes mud-houses on 
the walls — he sticks them there. He flies in through the 
window, takin^ the mud plaster in his front hands; and he 
sings while he builds his hoiise^ — he sings till your head 
turns round. 

“ That he does. He makes your head turn round. He 
makes the poor spiders^ heads turn round, too, till they 
lose their senses. Did you ever see inside the dirt-dauber^s 
house?’^ 

“Oh, yes; I saw one yesterday. Mother knocked it 
down with a broom. It had lots of little rooms inside — 
and fat white grubs, and spiders that looked like they were 
asleep. 

“ They were asleep. The dirt-dauber had put them to 
sleep with his dizzy mesmeric buzzing, and he had brought 
them to his house in his front hands, as you say, and 
sealed them up in the little cells, to be eaten at his leisure. 
That^s the way, he did me — 

“Oh! and how did you get out?^^ 

“ My guardian angel brushed out the dauber ^s house 
with a point of her wing, and — 

He broke ofl[ abruptly, for the shadow that had been 
coming down the walk fell over the group on the steps, and 
my mother exclaimed: 

“ Why, here is Doctor McKenna 

Albert jumped to his feet and made a quick step back- 
ward. He caught my hand and held it tight. 

“ I will not go back,^' he said, but his voicB shook and 
his fingers trembled. 


MY OWK SIK. 


127 


Go back, my dear boy?^^ said the doctor, shaking 
hands with my mother. Of course not. I don^t want 
you to go back to the hot, dusty city this time of the year. 
This is just the place for you — nice and quiet — and you 
are here among friends. I quite approve of your being 
here with Mrs. Monteagle and my fair ex-patient. Miss 
Hilda. Yes, I am not forgetting you. Miss Nell,^^ he 
went on, trying to draw the child to him as she shrunk 
away. I have come out of the city, too, leaving business 
to take care of itself. Vve taken board at the hotel of the 
little village at the station. They make good coffee there 
— gave me a juicy steak, too — and after I had eaten I 
walked out here to pay you a visit. You look quite idyllic, 
sitting here in the moonlight, listening to Albertis tales. 
Ah! Albert is a wonderful story-teller. He would have 
beaten the ^ Arabian Nights ^ princess at her own game. 
So you got away from the mesmeric dirt-dauber when you 
were a spider, eh? I suppose there was no danger of the 
wicked dauber putting the guardian angel under his spell 
‘^God forbid!’^ exclaimed Albert, looking at me and 
gripping my hand so tightly that it hurt. 

What nonsense you are all talking!’^ said my dear, 
uncomprehending mother. Hilda, why donT you get 
Doctor McKenna a chair ?^’ 


CHAPTER XV. 

The dismay that fell upon two of our little circle on the 
night of Dr. McKenna^s sudden appearance in our midst 
seemed, as time went on, to be unfounded. 

Dr. McKenna^s cloven foot was kept out of sight. He 
manifested no sinister purpose. He showed no disposition 
to interfere with Albertis actions, or to exert any influence 
over him. 

He betrayed no curiosity about my affairs, asked no 


128 


MY OWN SIN. 


questions, obtruded no sympathy — never mentioned the 
name of Gerald or Elsie. 

He talked to us all together. He came often, usually 
dropping in upon us in the late afternoon or evening. 

He always brought something — a bunch of flowers, a 
little box of French lonhons, a new book or magazine, 
from which he would read to us aloud. 

I have said before that he had a voice of marvelous 
beauty— surely the sweetest, most expressive voice I ever 
heard. 

His talk, too, was full of fascination. He had traveled 
much when he was younger, and he had observed men and 
studied the problems of life. 

To us, whose lives had been narrow, and whose range of 
thought had been limited, it was a boon to listen to his 
broad ideas, to see through the pictures his words made for 
us the scenery and civilization of the great world. 

But through all his fascinating talk, his dazzling phi- 
losophy, there sounded one dominant chord. It was Self. 

Everything should be done for Self. W’e should seek 
our own good, our own advancement, our own happiness — 
that was our chief business in this world. 

Suck the blossom of life of all its honey. It was only a 
blossom — to be nipped by death. 

He believed in no hereafter. He would not say this 
openly, for fear of exciting my mother^s displeasure or 
suspicion, but he intimated it in many subtle turns of his 
talk. 

The supreme law was to be good to yourself — to get all 
the good for yourself possible — no matter about other peo- 
ple and their rights. Let them look out for themselves. 

These views filtered through his conversation, particu- 
larly when he talked to me. I drank them in thirstily, 
though it increased rather than quenched the fire in my 
breast — the burning desire to snatch what I craved from 
Fate — Gerald and fortune. 


MY owisr sm. 


m 


The letters that came to me across the sea were not satis- 
fying. They w^ere affectionate, but they grew shorter and 
more hurried, with excuses about having so much to think 
of and attend to, and so little time to be alone. Elsie is 
always beside him,"'^ was my bitter thought. 

His scant mention of her seemed to me a suspicious 
avoidance, yet, when he did allude to her, the reference 
brought a pang. 

I knew whenever a steamer from England was expected. 
I read the column of ship news eagerly, and for days be- 
fore the time announced for a vessel to arrive I was in a 
state of feverish excitement. I went to the post-office my- 
self, and was there when the mail was opened. 

I had had no letter for several weeks; the steamer was 
delayed on her passage. I became too nervous to sit still. 
I walked to the village an hour before train-time, and sat 
waiting on the platform. 

At last it came; the mail-bag was carried to the little 
post-office. As soon ^-s it was opened I was there, and re- 
ceived my letter. 

Only one! I was^ccustomed to getting quite a batch of 
letters at one time. This one letter was postmarked at a 
little town: in Switzerland. I hurried away with it in my 
pocket, and as soon as I was out of sight I sat dov/n upon 
a stone, tore it open, and devoured the closely written 
pages. 

Only in one sentence was there mention of Elsie, and 
that seemed inadvertent. Gerald wrote: 

‘^My uncle and aunt have gone on to Paris. We are 
lingering here, staying in this quaint Alpine village be- 
cause the balsamic air and the goats’ milk are so beneficial 
to Elsie’s health.” 

Beneficial to Elsie’s health! Oh, irony of Fate! Had I 
procured this state of things at all this sacrifice of feeling, 

and sent my husband away from me to benefit Elsie’s 
6 


130 


OWK SIK. 


health? I had expected to read that she was failing, that 
she had succumbed to fatigue, that the artificial buoyancy 
of excitement had given place to prostration. Instead, my 
husband writes that he lingers among the Alps because it 
is benefiting Elsie^s health! 

He wrote too of walks in the valley, of viewing the sun- 
set from a jutting crag. No doubt she was his companion. 
I could see him carrying her in his arms over the rough 
places, supporting her up the steep ascent. Was it possi- 
ble she could climb the rocks— she, who could not mount 
the broad, easy stairs of Mile. Nepeau’s dress-making 
establishment when she went away? 

I crushed the letter in my hand. My heart was torn 
with anguish and helpless jealousy. 

“ Curse her! curse her!^^ I muttered between my 
clinched teeth. 

“ Amen,^^ softly said a sibilant voice behind me. 

I faced around and saw Dr. McKenna. 

‘‘Why are you playing the spy upon me?^^ I demanded, 
angrily. 

“ The spy? This is a public road, and I am walking 
quietly along it. I heard you uttering a — prayer — and I 
made a response. It is an Italian custom. ' 

“ This is not Italy, I said, rising, and thrusting the let- 
ter in my bosom. 

“ No,^^ he answered, slowly. “ Italy is the land of hot 
feelings and bold deeds. Jealousy there is followed by 
active revenge, not curses merely. 

I looked at him. Our eyes met, and I read his thoughts. 
He knew that it was Eslie Vaughn I had execrated. He 
knew that I was jealous of her. What else did he know? 
Did he guess all my secret? No; not fully. I felt assured 
of that by the way his live green eyes plunged down into 
mine. He was trying to find out all. He had not done it 
yet. 




MY OWK 


131 


CHAPTER XVL 

The sun had' set when I reached the house. The full 
moon was rising. 

Come in to tea. We have cream and peaches!^^ cried 
Nell, from the door. 

1 could not face them all. Albertis keen eyes would be 
sure to see something amiss. I said I was not hungry; I 
had been eating fruit in the village. I sat down on a 
bench in a grape-arbor that joined the house. 

After tea Albert came and sat by me, and began fanning 
me with a large tan yah leaf, as the night was very warm. 

Go hi and play for me,^^ I pleaded, for I felt it was 
impossible to talk to him. Improvise something — some- 
thing wild and fantastic, but not too gay. 

‘‘ ‘ Nor let thy notes of joy he first.* ** 

Hilda, is there darkness in your soul that you quote 
Byron^s poem?’^ he asked, anxiously, as he bent over me. 

Nonsense!’^ I laughed. ‘^Why should my soul be 
dark? But the sky will soon be dark. See, the clouds 
are boiling m the west. Suit your music to the night, my 
improvisator.^^ 

He went into the little parlor, stepping through the win- 
dow that opened to the ground, and sitting down before 
the cottage piano, began to play. Nell drew her hassock 
close to him, and my mother sat by the open window, ply- 
ing her large fan of turkey feathers. 

How warm the night was — warm and close and sultry to 
stifling. A dull languor possessed me. I put my locked 
hands behind my head and leaned back among the cool 
vine leaves. My forehead throbbed flercely. 

Let me lay this cool, soft leaf of the tanyah on your 
forehead/^ I heard Dr. McKenna say. 


132 


MY OWK SIN. 


It was the first intimation 1 had that he was near me. 
I started up from my reclining position, but the cool leaf, 
and his cool, soft fingers touched my temples at that in- 
stant. He gently pushed my head back among the inter- 
laced vines and laid the broad leaf on my forehead, over 
my eyes. 

I made no resistance beyond a gesture of the hand. His 
fingers touched my brow gently, smoothing down the leaf. 

What else he did I do not know. I was weighed down 
with the fatigue of the long, hot walk and with the mental 
depression that followed the reading of Gerald^s letter. I 
did not feel capable of resistance, scarcely of thought. 

Albert was playing some dreamy, winding music. The 
dull pain in my head and heart seemed to wind round and 
round in time to it — round and round in bewildering 
mazes. 

At last the pain ceased. There was only the bewildered 
going round in my brain, slowly, slowly. The music grew 
fainter. It sounded far away. 

1 was fioating somewhere in midair, and there were 
arms around me and soft lips pressed to mine. Their 
breath seemed drawing something out of me. Was it my 
soul? I tried to resist. I struggled in the up-buoying 
arms, but it was in vain. They seemed to hold me gently 
but firmly. Softly, steadily they drew my soul out through 
my lips. 

It was done. 1 seemed to fall from the loosened arms 
down, down through space. 

1 sprung to my feet with a cry. My head swam round. 
1 fell back on the bench. 

The thunder waked you from your nap,^^ said a voice, 
with a tone of mocking triumph vibrating through it. I 
saw McKenna standing before me. A shaft of light from 
the moon, not yet eclipsed by clouds, fell across his face. 
My God, what a face it was! — lighted up with malignant 


MY OWK SIN. 133 

joy, the green eyes flashing, the bearded lips apart, show- 
ing the gleaming teeth. 

“ What has happened?^^ I uttered, feebly. 

‘‘ You fell asleep, and the thunder waked you; that is 
all,^^ he said. 

Asleep! You — you put me to sleep! What have I 
said? Oh, wretch! what have you made me say?^^ 

Then he smiled. 

Hilda, don't get excited. There were just a few 
words — just three — I did not mind the rest — that escaped 
softly, tremblingly from those sweet lips, like a bee from a 
rose. I caught the truant words on my own breath. I 
shut them np between my lips and down in my heart. 
That is all. They are safe there." 

What words? It is absurd to attach significance to 
what one says in sleep." 

It was not sleep," he said, bending close to me. “ It 
was the magnetic trance. I did produce it, and — I know 
all." 

As he spoke there came another sharp peal of thunder; 
black clouds ingulfed the moon. 

The double shock made me reel backward. He caught 
me in his arms. 

Don't fear me, Hilda," he whispered. We must be 
friends. We must be allies. You will need me in time to 
come. And you can not resist me now. You are bound 
to me by the subtle, magnetic tie — the power of spirit over 
spirit. Hilda, we must understand each other." 

I had freed myself from his arms, but he held my hand 
in the clasp of his firm, soft fingers. All around us was 
darkness. 

The storm had extinguished every star. I looked 
through the window into the lighted parlor. It was 
empty. 

‘‘ Albert fied at the first peal of thunder," said Dr. 
McKenna. “He is so sensitive to sound that the loud 


134 


MY OWN SIN. 


crash sets every nerve quivering. He is in his room with a 
pillow over his head. Your mother and Nell have gone 
upstairs. They called you and I told them you had gone 
in. We are alone — alone with the wind and the rain. 
Hear the drops beginning to rattle on the leaves overhead. 
I love the storm and the darkness. My spirit has a chord 
that responds to the warring elements. So has yours, 
Hilda. Woman though you are, there is a strong fiber in 
your nature — a fiber akin to mine. 

I shuddered within me as he claimed this spiritual kin- 
ship to me, and yet I did not shrink away from him. I 
did not withdraw my hand that he held as he talked. 

There was a spell in his voice heard above the dash of 
the rain — in his eyes that shone in the flashes of lightning 
like baleful stars. 

Had he truly established a power over me? Had he put 
his chain upon me, as Albert warned me he would do, or 
was I only stupefied by the effects of that mesmeric trance, 
and by the knowledge that my secret was in this man^s 
keeping — the secret that held disgrace and ruin for Gerald? 


CHAPTER XVII. 

.‘^Let us go inside, he said, at length. ‘^It is sweet 
to stand here with you in the rainy darkness, with the thick 
roof of leaves overhead, and watch the lightning play on 
your white face, my beautiful; but you will get wet, Hilda, 
and I want you to keep your health. Be good to yourself. 
Come in.^^ 

He drew me into the parlor, and turned round to close 
the shutters after us. Then he sat down by me on the old- 
fashioned lounge, upon which I had dropped through sheer 
inability to stand. 

Let us understand each other, Hilda, he said, turn- 
ing his face upon me. “I have your secret. You shall 
have mine. 1 will wear no mask to you. Listen. You 


MY OWK SIK. 


135 


know the key-note of my philosophy of life — I have told 
you before — Self. Self is the dominant note of every 
strong life. Bend everything to your individual interests. 
This life is all there is. Compass as much happiness and 
power as you can. Inside the law? you ask. No; inside 
detection. Laws are necessary to protect the weak. If one 
* is strong and subtle^ it is his right to transcend the laws 
and circumvent them. His care need only be to keep 
from being found out. Moral obligation and conscience is 
all- bosh — old women^s and clergymen's twaddle. So much 
to explain my theory of action. Now let me tell you my 
story — part of it at least. Did you guess I was ambitious? 
I knew you were when I first saw you. I have studied 
faces and heads to some purpose. I am ambitious in one 
thing. I want to be the founder of a new school of science. 
I have discovered a new force — rather, I have found a way 
to collect, to concentrate and apply a force that is as old as 
man — the wonderful, the mysterious brain or nerve-force. 
Talk of steam — of electricity — they are gross, slow and 
clumsy in comparison with this subtle, swift, all-powerful 
brain, nerve, soul-power — call it what you please. When 
I shall carry my discovery into effect it will do away with 
such crude helps as the telegraph and the telephone. It 
will do away with the necessity for printing, or for speech. 
It will annihilate space and time. It will bring us in con- 
nection with the star worlds above yonder canopy of 
storm, flinging out his long arm in the direction of the 
window, through which the black sky was seen in the glare 
of the lightning. 

He went on, his voice low and inthralling: 

‘^My discovery will do away with disease and pain and 
the necessity for drugs. It will — listen to me, Hilda — it 
will do away with death itself. Man need not grow old or 
die when he can renew himself through this soul-battery. 
It must be at the expense of other life — brute life and the 
life of inferior human creatures. These lives must be sac- 


136 


MY OWN SIK. 


rificed in order to gain* the supply of vital force necessary 
for the battery. But this is no matter. Think how many 
human animals there are taking up space and breath on 
this earthly globe who are of no manner of use whatever. 

I would put these to use. I would drain their vital forces 
for my battery. As the galvanic battery draws the electric 
force from the air and concentrates it^ so my infinitely finer , 
machine shall draw and concentrate a far subtler and more 
wonderful power — concentrate it^that it may feed finer 
brains and assist them in opening up communication with 
God-like beings through the scheme of spirit-telegraphy. 

Hilda Monteagle, when I perfect my great discovery, 
gold will be poured in heaps at my feet, fame will ring my 
brow with the crown of immortality, the rulers of the world 
will bow the knee to Erastus McKenna. 

The green lights in his deep-set eyes outdazzled the 
lightning. I gazed at him in dumb amaze. The horrible 
beauty of Satan sat on his swarthy brow; his voice went 
through me, low yet piercing, like the final quivering note 
of a violin in a master’s hand. 

It darted through my brain that this man was mad 
— that the fire of insanity burned under his cold, calm ex- 
terior; but the thought took no lodgment in my spell- 
bound being. I was under the power of that green, glit- 
tering eye. I listened, fascinated, wondering — for the 
time believing. He went on, a shadow clouding his face: 

But to perfect and apply this great discovery — this 
mode of collecting and concentrating nerve-force — requires 
money; and the influence that money will give. Else I 
could not even secure a hearing in regard to my scheme. 

1 must have money — millions of money. But give me 
half a million and I will soon increase it twenty- fold. My 
first step must be to obtain the half million. How should 
it be done? The easiest way was to marry a rich woman. 

I married one. She had nearly the requisite half million, 
but unfortunately it was not in hand. A life lay between 


MY OWN SIN. 


137 


her and this fortune — a life 1 could not touch, though it 
was infirm and feeble; for her old mother, suspicious 
bedlam that she was, would not let me come into her 
presence after the first- week of my marriage. She said 
there was a devil in my eyes, and warned her daughter 
against me. This daughter — my wife — was Albertis moth- 
er. She was a widow with this child when I married her 
— a pretty, weak-minded creature. I did not love her, but 
1 did not kill her, as her mother would have it. At least, 
1 did not kill her purposely, though I may have experi- 
mented too freely upon her, and draine^ her small vital 
force before I was aware of it. I certainly would not have 
killed my goose before the golden egg was laid. She died 
while her old mother was still living. Still the fortune 
would be mine, for it would pass to Albert at his grand- 
mother's death, and I was Albertis step-father and guard- 
ian. There was only one other natural heir — and this was 
a girl — the child of the old woman’s only son, whom she 
had driven from her with curses because he married the 
daughter of a man who had jilted her in her youth. 

She had refused to see this son when he was on his 
death-bed. She had refused to see or to hear about his 
child. It was not the least probable that she would leave 
her fortune to this daughter of a woman she hated and a 
man she had cursed. 

“ But it is the unexpected that always happens. The 
old woman’s end came at last. The will was opened and 
it was found that her vast fortune was bequeathed to this 
granddaughter she had never seen. Albert was cut off 
with a paltry twenty thousand. Her malignant hate of 
me was the cause. She said she had altered her will to 
prevent her money falling into the hands of a fortune- 
hunter, who had caused the death of her daughter and 
would beggar her grandson. 

I was struck powerless with'" rage and disappointment 
at first. Then I rallied and I determined to continue the 


138 


MY OWK SIK. 


fight. I keep a bull-dog grip upon any purpose I fasten 
my will upon, and 1 resolved to have this fortune. Ob- 
stacles only inspired me to overcome them. And I was 
further actuated by a desire to revenge myself upon the 
malignant hag who had fooled me. 

I would seek the young heiress of this fortune I had 
lost. She was Elsie Vaughn. You have guessed this be- 
fore. I found that by a decree of the will the inheritance 
would fall to Albert if Elsie should die unmarried before 
she came of age. If she married she could make a will in 
her husband^s or child^s favor. Failing to do this, tlie 
money would revert to Albert if she died after her mar- 
riage. 

“I see by your face, Hilda, that this proviso is news to 
you. But it is true; unless Elsie makes a will leaving her 
money to her — I mean your husband — it will fall to my 
step-son, and your sacrifice — your bold scheme — will come 
to naught. 

But, to go on with my story — I see you are interested. 
I have said I set out to seek Elsie Vaughn. I found her 
living with only an old maid relation. 1 had heard she 
was very fragile. I found her frail indeed, but not organic- 
ally diseased. 1 determined to become her physician. I 
won over the old maid by presenting her with a Maltese 
cat. I managed to throw doubt upon the skill of her doc- 
tor, and got him dismissed. 1 tried my peculiar treatment 
upon Elsie. It acted like a charm. It was just what she 
needed — that pumping of fresh vital force into her nerves. 
It made her sleep, gave her appetite and strength. I kept 
this up until I had confirmed the two women in the belief 
of my skill, and then I gradually reversed the treatment. 
I began to draw ofl: her vital force. I could have done it 
more rapidly, but I was afraid of losing their confidence. 
Then I found a keen interest in experimenting — in exercis- 
ing this power to add or to subtract life. There was plenty 
of time. It was some years yet before Elsie Vaughn would 


MY OWX SIK. 


139 


be of age. Before that time came there would be no Elsie 
Vaughn. Her small stock of life would have been trans- 
ferred to my own being, and her money to Albert. 

“ Horrible I uttered. 

He looked at me and smiled in his slow, sinister way. 

Horrible, is it? Is it much more of a crime to kill 
Elsie Vaughn, as I proposed to do, than to wish and long 
for her death as you do? The deed is a little more active 
than the wish, and requires a little more nerve, that is all.'^^ 

My eyes dropped to the floor. I felt that his reasoning 
was true. 

Neither wish nor deed is a crime, he went on. 

There is no such thing as crime — until it is found out. 
Laws> as I have said, are only to preserve a general order 
in the world of men. One may leap over the barrier of 
law, if he is bold and cunning enough, and do no wrong, 
because there is no such thing as moral wrong. All the 
harm that can come is being found out and punished by 
the laws that men have made for convenience^ sake. 

“ So neither you nor I have done wrong. What is the 
life of that puny girl to mine — to my brain that holds the 
secret of a discovery that shall revolutionize the world? 
Her paltry life lies between me and my purpose — I brush 
it away as I would a fly. 

“ Why did I not brush it away at once? Why did I 
linger over my work? That was a weakness; but as I told 
you, I was experimenting; and then — let me confess it — I 
found that brushing away this fragile vitality was not as 
easy as I had expected.^ One strong chord held Elsie 
Vaughn to life. It was her love for her fiance — the hand- 
some boy she had been betrothed to by her mother and his 
father. This remembrance of Gerald Oldridge, and this 
hope of seeing him and becoming his wife, was the one 
strong impulse — the pivot of her being. All her dreams 
and hopes and fancies clustered around it. She lived upon 
it. For it was this that gave her the intense craving for 


140 


MY OWK sm. 


life which made her resist my power so wonderfully. 1 am 
mortified to confess to you that I never once succeeded in 
getting her will fully subject to mine; and I feel sure this 
was owing to the counteracting influence of her love for 
Gerald, and her craving to see him. 

Her aunt was in the meantime seconding this craving 
by urging that she should come to New York. At last my 
passion for analyzing causes, and my fear of exciting suspi- 
cion made me give my consent, as her physician, for Elsie 
to go. But before I did this I took a trip to New York 
alone, that I might see young Oldridge and study his char- 
acter. I did see him, and read him through and through. 

“ It was not hard to do. His is not a deep or a broad 
nature. 1 said to myself: ‘ Here is a young man brought 
up inside the strait and narrow code of morality. He has 
a conscience; he has his ideas of honor and so-called manly 
self-respect. He will not marry a woman — though she be 
an heiress — whose appearance excites in him only pity. 
He will not sell himself for a price where he can give no 
affection. He will let Elsie Vaughn understand that he 
can not marry her. The shock will snap the staff she leans 
on. It will break that strong chord of hope she clings to, 
and I can soon do the rest. She will yield at once to my 
treatment. ^ 

You understand now my motive in letting my patient 
come to New York. It was a mistaken step, but the error 
was not in my judgment. I had diagnosed young Oldridge 
correctly. He would never have married that ghastly, 
stricken girl. He wanted money, but he had not the 
nerve to get it in that way. But you had, Hilda. You 
had the nerve of a Judith. You are a woman after my 
own heart, and so I forgive you for thwarting my plan. 
It was you who influenced Gerald Oldridge to consent to 
marry Elsie Vaughn. 

The announcement of that consent came to me like a 
thunder-bolt. It seemed a death-blow to my plans. I 


MY OWN SIN. 


141 


was desperate. I determined to alter my mode of treating 
her at once. I would apply the exhaustive system as 
strongly as 1 could. I did so — once only. My patient, 
pallid, exhausted, whispered to her aunt a plea that she 
should not see me again. Another physician was sent for. 
He pronounced me a charlatan, and the doors of the Old- 
ridge mansion were closed upon me. 

“ Did I lose hope? No; an ordinary man would have 
given up the game, but not 1 — Erastus McKenna. I was 
still determined to win, though I did not see how it could 
be done. Chance threw me in contact with you. I studied 
you that day as you stood on the pier, watching, as I was 
watching, the sailing away of the bridal pair. 1 read pain 
and anxiety in your look. There was the tigress flash in 
your eyes, too, when Oldridge put his arm around his bride. 
I said to myself: ‘ That girl has a secret. It may be of 
use to me to And it out. Hers is no common character. 
She is strong and daring — the sort of soul 1 want to have 
and hold. 1 will pluck out the heart of her mystery.^ 

Well, I have accomplished my purpose. I know your 
secret, as you know mine. You have made the man you 
love commit a crime — as the law goes — to obtain the money 
that would give you luxury and social position and the 
privilege openly to enjoy his love. You have done this, 
and your well-laid scheme, like mine, has ^ gone aglee. ^ 
Elsie Vaughn will live; you will miss the fortune, and you 
will lose your husband. 

Never I cried, starting to my feet. The fortune 
I may miss, but 1 will not lose Gerald. He is mine, heart 
and soul.-^^ 

He smiled — that slow, sardonic smile that made my flesh 
creep. 

‘‘ We shall see,^^ he said. “ My insight into the human 
heart is deeper than yours. You are destined to a terrible 
disappointment. This man is the slave of convention. His 
is a timid, ease-loving nature. He will cling to the woman 


142 


MY OWN SIN. 


who is his wife in the sight of the world, and he will let you 
go to the wall.'’^ 

‘‘ Hush!’^ I cried, stamping my foot. “ You are judg- 
ing him falsely. You shall not say that of Gerald Old- 
ridge! He is the soul of honor and constancy — 

That smile again ! It was like a cold hand on my heart. 
I dropped back into the seat I had risen from. 

Why have you told me all this?^^ 1 murmured. 
“ What can be done?^^ 

There! You are reasonable, he said, laying his soft, 
cushiony palm over my trembling hands. Listen to me 
now quietly. 1 have told you all this because, for one 
thing, it is a craving of human nature to have some one to 
confide in. You will feel a relief now that I know your 
secret. I stole it from you; and so I have given you mine 
— secret for secret. Now for my chief reason. Through 
this secret of yours I will get the fortune I crave — old 
Grandmother Vaughn^s hundreds of thousands, which she 
swore I should never touch. I will get it yet — if you will 
be my ally.^^ 

What do you mean?^^ 

I am about to tell you. When this precious pair re- 
turns, this Elsie will be more than ever wrapped up— body 
and soul — in Gerald Oldridge. Her health will be im- 
proved, but she will not be stroi:^. She will never be 
strong, though if she is shielded from all painful shocks 
and fed and pampered with Gerald’s affection, she will live 
to a good old age. But when the terrible truth that she is 
no wife — that Gerald Oldridge has deceived her and that 
he is a criminal — when this is dashed in her face, she will 
not live five days after Gerald Oldridge’s felony has been 
exposed. 

“ Who will expose that felony I asked. 

“Who! You, Hilda — you, his wronged wife — will de- 
nounce Gerald Oldridge: ” 

“ Never — never. Even if I did not love him with every 


MY OWK SIK. 143 

fiber of my soul, I would not denounce him for what I 
caused him to do. The sin was mine.^^ 

He turned on me with the enraged, baffled look of a mad 
dog that jerks at his chain. 

‘‘ You must, you shall denounce him!^^ he hissed. I 
myself will expose his crime. 

“You can not prove it. You can not prove that he 
was ever married to me. There were no witnesses; there 
is no record; there was no license. By the law of New 
York State, none of these were needed. He has never 
acknowledged me as his wife. I will deny that I am. I 
will swear that I was only his mistress. 

He looked at me in amazement. Eage and disappoint- 
ment made him livid. He gnawed his lip in his effort to 
control himself. Presently he said, with calm scorn: 

“ What a fool a woman is when she loves! A brute 
would have more sense than to ruin itself for no end what- 
ever. 

His cold tones and cynical utterance had a calming effect 
upon me. When he next spoke I listened quietly. 

“ What then do you propose to do in the event of Elsie^s 
continuing to live? You will give the pair your blessing, 
I suppose, and let them quietly enjoy their wedded bliss. 

I felt the hot blood surge to my face. 

“ No!^^ I cried. “ If Elsie Vaughn is living when Ger- 
ald returns, the scheme will be abandoned. He will leave 
her, and we two will go somewhere else. The world is 
wide. I will follow where he goes, and we will begin life 
anew. Somewhere in the new, wide west we can live and 
be happy. 

“ And if he refuses to go with you — if he refuses to leave 
his rich wife?^' 

“ He will not refuse. I have told you that. 

“You have indeed, very impressively; but nothing is 
more uncertain than human actions — than a man^s actions 
where a woman is concerned. I repeat my suggestion — if 


144 


MY OWl^ sm. 


he should refuse to leave Elsie Vaughn for you^ would you 
then denounce him?^^ 

Yes/-" I cried, a lava tide of jealousy suddenly flooding 
my heart, yes/’ 

Swear it/^ 

I swear it!^^ and I tossed my arm upward as calling 
Heaven to witness. 

His eyes gleamed with exultation. He seized my arm 
and pressed his lips on the bare flesh. 

This seals the oath/^ he said. “ And now, Hilda,^^ 
he went on, clasping my hand in both his, be at peace. 
You are wearing yourself out with the fierce intensity of 
your emotions. Be strong. Life has many possibilities 
for you, even though you lose the love of this one man. 

I care for nothing else. Life would be nothing to me 
without his love. Wealth — fame would be dross 

He eyed me in silence. Wonder and a sort of scornful 
pity were in his look. 

‘‘ Girl! girl!’^ he cried, no man on earth is worth such 
self-immolation! No man like Gerald Oldridge could un- 
derstand or appreciate it! Take my advice. You have 
rich gifts. Make the most of them. You have strong 
feelings and sympathies, a vivid imagination — these quali- 
ties will make you a writer of power and popularity. Write 
a novel, Hilda. Fling yourself into it. Pour into its 
pages the hot tide of emotion, the sparkle of fancy, the 
light of imagination that is in you. Write a book. It 
may not bring you much money, but it will give you a pur- 
pose — an outlet for these feelings and energies that fever 
all your being. And it will bring you recognition from a 
few whose praise is worthy. You will have their acknowl- 
edgment of your gift.^^ 

And Gerald^s?^^ 

And Gerald ^s,^^ he said, with his slow smile of scorn. 

He will see you through the eyes of other men, and be 
proud of you. Men of his nature are proud of a woman in 


MY OWK SIN. 


145 


proportion as the world thinks well of her. There, I have 
made you angry with me again. Forgive me, as I have 
forgiven you for so much. Let us be friends. The bond 
of a secret — guilty as the world holds it — is between us. 
Give me your hand. I am no sensualist, Hilda Monteagle. 
My soul scorns the gross connection of flesh. No woman 
can love this ugly face of mine, and 1 seek to win no wom- 
an's carnal love — mine be the power of soul over soul. 
Ours be the higher bond, my Hilda — the comradeship of 
the flner inner being. Give me your hand upon it, girl of 
the eagle name and the eagle ambition. 

My hand was laid in his. He folded it in his soft An- 
gers, looking at me with his eyes glowing like living 
emeralds. A final peal from the scattering cohorts of the 
storm shook the walls about us. 

Our compact is sealed and attested, he said. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

Aftee all I ought to be glad that Erastus McKenna 
came into my life. His words roused something in me that 
else might never have been wakened. They stirred the 
sleeping sense of the power that was in me — the divine gift 
of imagination and of expression. 

Write a book. It is in you to do it.^^ For days his 
words echoed in my ears. I pondered upon them, at first 
idly, then intently, until a sudden resolve burned in my 
brain, and I said, I will do it.'’^ 

This purpose, put at once into effect, saved me from 
much suffering that trying summer. Get work,^^ said 
Elizabeth Browning. ‘‘It is better than what you work 
to get. Never were truer words uttered. Work is the 
great panacea for aching hearts and restless souls. 

The gift of imagination and of expression had been born 
in me. Its natural outlet was in the art of writing, not of 
painting. I had tried this latter, but with faint success* 


146 


MY OWN SIN. 


But I had found it easy to write out my thoughts and 
fancies. I had written verses from my childhood, and lit- 
tle sketches and stories, which I read to my mother, and 
later to Gerald and Nell. Their praise had encouraged me 
to write for the public eye. I sent a few stories to papers 
and second-class magazines, and they were, with a single 
exception, promptly accepted. But the pay was small. I 
could not depend upon it for the support of myself and 
those dependent upon me. I had no time to take pains 
with my work, and I could not bear to have it crude and 
unfinished. So I had given up. the hope of having litera- 
ture for my profession. Only now and then I wrote some- 
thing-some bit of rhyme that broke its way out of my 
heart, whether I would or no, or some short sketch — ^dra- 
matic or weird. 

Now, however, I had leisure for better things — and I had 
a powerful incentive outside the instinctive longing for ex- 
pression. If I wrote something that would take the uncer- 
tain public — something that would sell — I would have 
money to give Gerald — money that would help him to be- 
gin life somewhere else; for, of course, he must leave his 
uncle^s and quit New York after he had left Elsie, and he 
would leave Elsie so soon as it was sure she would live. 

I hoped he would leave her at once. I intimated as 
much in my letters; but I had to write guardedly, and he 
was, 1 thought, even too guarded in his own letters, for 
each one left me in doubt about Elsie. Was she slowly 
dying, or was she gradually recovering through the elixir 
of love and the effect of change and travel? 

Well, I would know after awhile. Two months had not 
yet gone by. The suspense was torturing, but here was a 
means to allay it. I would act on Dr. McEenna^s sugges- 
tion — I would write a book. 

The plot of my story came to me in a very strange way. 
My brain was full of plots, but none had satisfied my ideal. 
I dismissed them one by one as too commonplace or too 


MY OWK SIK. 


147 


hackneyed. I was running them over in my mind one day 
— one sultry afternoon — as I sat in an old, half-ruined 
summer-house at the back of the garden. Albert was 
there, but his presence was no intrusion. He sat fingering 
his violin, in his usual dreamy, abstracted way, evoking 
some slow minor melody. 

Tired with thinking, I leaned my head against the vine- 
muffled post and dropped to sleep. A sudden rain came 
up. A great drop splashing on my cheek startled me out 
of my short sleep and broke the thread of a vivid dream. 
I sat up, unable at once to shake off the spell. 

“Hilda, what is the matter? You look as. white and 
startled as if you had seen a ghost, Albert said. 

I answered: 

“ I have had a dream — oh! so strange, so life-like, I can 
hardly believe I have not been living through it.-^^ 

Then I told him my dream. It was a story of a soul in- 
snared — of a strong temptation — wrong-doing — a sin long 
hidden under a fair life and a fair face — of remorse aroused 
by the touch of late-coming love — of repentance and ex- 
piation. 

He listened as I recounted the incidents of the strange 
drama that had swept through my brain in that five min- 
utes^ sleep, though it had taken an hour to relate them. 
When I had finished, he sat silent, with his hand twitching 
in mine. His sensitive being was touched by the wild 
pathos of the story I had told. 

“ Hilda/^ he said at last, “if you could write that 
dream as you have told it, it would make you famous. 

“ 1 will write it,^^ I answered, quickly. “ It is an in- 
spiration. I will take it as the plot of my story — my book 
that shall be. 

I began that very night to write the story I had dreamed 
in the old summer-house. 

It grew under my pen. The plot widened, the incidents 
thickened, the characters developed; but never could I 


148 


MY OWN SIN. 


breathe into it all the intensity of feeling, all the weird 
sense of inevitable, all-compelling, overhanging destiny 
that belonged to the dream. 

Who can do this? Who can reproduce the emotional in- 
tensity, the sense of fatality of a dream? Who can love, 
enjoy, and suffer in every-day life as he does when his 
senses are shut in sleep and a dream weaves its wild drama 
in his brain? 

It is a foretaste of the intensity with which we shall suffer 
or enjoy in the life to come. It is a proof that we are im- 
mortal — that there is a soul and a future life, though so 
many thinkers deny it in these latter days. 

I worked with feverish energy. I wrote with a flying pen 
at first, then transcribed what I had written with careful 
corrections. I would spare no pains to make my novel a 
success. 

I must win fame and money for Gerald^s sake—that I 
might make up to him, as much as possible, for the harm 
I had wrought him — for the sacrifice he would have to 
make in breaking off forever from old friends and associa- 
tions and beginning life anew — beginning it far from New 
York. The world was wide. He would leave Elsie — 
without a word to her or to any one — he would simply dis- 
appear. In some other part of the world — in California, 
in Mexico, or in Europe, we would pitch oiir tent and for- 
get the mistakes of the past in the happiness of living to- 
gether. Ah ! how happy I would be if I could put a good 
sum of money into my darling^s hands — money of my own 
earning — to help him establish himself. Then I would not 
feel quite so remorseful at having spoiled his life by my sin. 

And so with this purpose before me — with this to stimu- 
late me — the hope of winning money and feme, that Ger- 
ald might be proud of me, and that I might be a help to 
him, I wrote my story. 

I shut myself in an attic room upstairs where the dust 
lay thick on the old books and broken furniture and the 


MY OWN SIN. 


149 


spiders spun their webs. 1 turned a deaf ear to Nell’s 
pleadings to come and go fishing or berrying with her 
and Albert. I scarcely heard the birds twittering in the 
boughs of the locust-tree that grew close to my window. 
Albert’s soft playing in the room below soothed and helped 
me. I knew he sympathized with my work and my hopes, 
though he did not dream of the purpose that inspired my 
brain and impelled my hand. 

At last, one day — seven weeks after it was begun — the 
story was finished. I wrote “ finis ” with a trembling pen, 
then I gathered all the sheets together and went down- 
stairs. 

Dr. McKenna sat in the parlor alone. He came over 
from the village almost every day at this hour — Just before 
sunset — and sometimes he would take me to ride beside 
him in the old-fashioned buggy he had picked up in the 
little town. 

There was a charm in his society. I did not like him; 
there were looks and utterances of his that made me recoil 
from him in disgust and horror; and yet I was drawn to 
him by some subtle bond. He knew my secret; he under- 
stood the trial I was passing through as no one else could 
understand it. There was a comfort in being with one 
from whom you need have no concealments. I often felt 
my whole being tingle with irritation when my mother 
looked at me in her mildly questioning way. 

Dr. McKenna never once alluded to this secret he had 
stolen from its hiding-place in my heart upon that night of 
storm. He did not mention Gerald’s name. He talked 
of other things — talked in a quiet, restful, yet fine and 
subtle way that was made more fascinating by the music 
of his voice. 1 had never told him that I had taken his 
advice and was writing a book, but I was sure he knew it, 
as he knew everything concerning me. 

1 came up to him with the manuscript of my completed 
novel in my hand, and said; 


150 


MY OWN SIN. 


‘‘ It is finished^ Doctor McKenna. Here is my book — 
the book you told me to write. 

A light came into his eyes. He took the great pile of 
written sheets that I held out to him. 

I will read it,^^ he said, “ and I will see that it is pub- 
lished at once.^^ 

How do you know it will be accepted 

I do know it. I know what your gift is, and I know 
you have worked well. You have worked hard, Hilda,^^ 
he went on, looking at me. The roses have dropped 
from your cheeks, and your eyes look larger than ev.er. 
You must rest and recruit now. Yes, I know your story 
will catch the ear of the public. You have an inthralling 
plot to begin with. 

What do you know of the plot of my story I asked, 
in surprise. 

He smiled. 

I know it well; it is a mixed web — woven of hidden 
crime, deception, love, and explanation. 

‘‘ Albert has told you.-^^ 

‘‘Albert told me nothing. You know that Albert sel- 
dom talks to me. But your plot came to you in a dream, 
did it not?’^ 

“ It did,^^ I said, wondering. “ In a dream, as I slept 
for five minutes in the old garden summer-house. 

“ "What if I, sitting at my window, sent that dream to 
you in a fiash of spirit-telegraphy? Know you not that I 
have fastened telegraphic wires from your being to mine, 
my Hilda. 

“ Then the book is yours — not mine. Take it and throw 
it in the fire.^^ 

“ Not so. It shall be published. It shall bring you 
fame and money. It is yours. 1 could not have written 
it to save my life. I have only held out to you the goblet, 
and you have filled it with the wine of your genius. Go 


MY OWK SIN. 151 

now and take your ride. Let Albert drive you. I think 
you would rather have his company than mine to-day. 

He was right. I could not have borne to sit beside him 
just now. I was startled — filled with something akin to 
terror as I realized how this man held the key of entrance 
to my inner being; how 1 could have no secrec)^ — no pri- 
vacy of soul or mind. Would he not use his power to com- 
pel me to betray Gerald? I had promised — sworn to betray 
him if he did not give up Elsie and return to me. Ah! 
but I would never be required to keep that oath. My hus- 
band^s heart was mine — all my own. He would be true to 
me. What he had done was through me. The crime was 
mine. He was true as steel — to his plighted word and to 
his love. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

I SAW no more of Dr. McKenna until the next day. I 
was walking in the garden at nightfall when I heard his 
step behind me, and saw his ungainly shadow projected on 
the walk before me by the rising moon. 

He spoke to me, and then walked at my side in silence 
for a few minutes before he said, abruptly: 

Hilda, I congratulate you. Your novel is even better 
than I believed it would be. It is more realistic; there is 
more fervor of expression. So much is due to your hav- 
ing loved. You women write and act better after you 
have passed through the fiery furnace of passion. It is 
the price an artist must pay. But is this your first story 
— have you written nothing before?^ ^ 

I have been writing little stories and sketches ever 
since I could shape my letters, I said. “ My mother has 
rolls of my early scribblings. My father wrote a book, and 
published many fugitive pieces. 

Then you came rightly by your gift. It is an inherit- 
ance. His genius has reached its^'^finer flowering in his 


152 


MY OWN SIN. 


child. To-morrow I will put your manuscript in the 
hands of a publisher to be read. I feel sure it will be ac- 
cepted. If this is not I will have it published at my own 
expense. 

Indeed, you must not do this/^ I cried, quickly. 

He looked at me and smiled. I felt my will melt under 
that look. I had a wretched consciousness that Dr. 
McKenna was strengthening the bond between us by acts 
that brought me under obligation to him. And he can 
have but one motive, I thought. He means to use me in 
his fixed — his monomaniacal determination to get posses- 
sion of Elsie^s fortune. This must be the secret of his in- 
terest in me. He is not in love with me. A man with an 
eye like that could never love. 

‘‘ His heart is cold 
To all but gold/' 

He wishes to obtain a strong hold upon me to further his 
schemes. I mus^ beware of him. I must break his spell 
some way. 

My task was finished. I had no longer an absorbing 
work to ward off anxiety, and it came back to me with 
greater intensity. For now three months had passed since 
Gerald left me — three months — and Elsie Vaughn still 
lived. If I could believe McKenna, it was likely she would 
continue to live. My scheme had probably failed. There 
was still a hope, for Gerald^s last letter, dated from Baden- 
Baden, had said: “Elsie is suffering greatly from fatigue 
and debility, and we will stay here and rest. If she is well 
enough for me to leave here, I will make a flying visit to 
Home. 

My answer had been: “ Go; for you must see the Eter- 
nal City. I wish I could stand by your side before the 
Coliseum — but, oh! do not stay: come back — come back 
to your friends — your friend. We will give up ail erratic 


MY OWiT SIN. 153 

schemes for wealth, and be content with living and work- 
ing together/^ 

This was as much as I dared say, for we had agreed be- 
fore he left that my letters to him must be cautiously 
worded. There must be no hint of the relation between 
us, or of the understanding about Elsie. It would be too 
imprudent under the circumstances. He was going about 
all the while; he was traveling part of the time with his 
aunt and uncle — whose name was the same as his own — 
and a letter might fall under eyes it was not meant should 
see it. My letters were signed Harry, and were meant to 
express only the friendship of a devoted comrade of his 
own sex; but this idea was often lost sight of, and a chance 
reader of the letters would have thought me a very ardent 
comrade indeed. 

He did not need to use so much caution; but his nature 
was infinitely more circumspect than mine, and he never 
addressed me as wife. It was always, My dear Hal,^^ or 

My dear little boy.^^ He had given me this name long 
ago — in playful allusion to my short, boyish curls. 

The letter from Baden-Baden, telling of Elsie^s indis- 
position and of his wish to pay a flying visit to Eome, 
came to me while I was writing my story — in the thick 
of that task — when I was hardly taking time to eat and 
sleep enough to keep up my strength. It was the last line 
I received from him in many days. I became intensely 
anxious. As days grew into weeks, and one steamer after 
another arrived in port and still no news from Gerald, I 
grew half wild with suspense and dread. I came to town 
and bought a great roll of French papers, and pored over 
them, reading carefully column after column of the society 
gossip and the letters from summer resorts. 

At last, in a gossipy letter from Baden-Baden, I came 
upon a paragraph about an interesting little American 
bride, very rich but in very frail health; so delicate that 
she looks like a melting snow wreath, but so sweet and 


154 


MY own SIK. 


patient and gracious that she wins all hearts. She is very 
much in love with her handsome, broad-shouldered hus- 
band/^ said the letter- writer. ‘‘ It is quite touching to see 
how she clings to his strong arm, and he, I must add, is 
very attentive to her."^^ 

I crushed the paper in my hand, all the blood in me 
rushing to my throbbing head. The picture that came be- 
fore me was maddening. The interesting bride cling- 
ing to the arm of her handsome, attentive husband! At- 
tentive! For a moment the bitter tide of jealousy surged 
hotly through my veins, then came cooler reflection. Of 
course he must be attentive to her — his bride. He must 
keep up the semblance of a loving bridegroom. It w'as I 
who had thrust the situation upon him; and gratitude for 
her love and her generous lavishness, pity for her, remorse 
that he had deceived her, and must soon desert her if she 
lived — these would make a hard man attentive, and Gerald 
was tender and chivalrous in his nature. 

Oh, I had no right to feel bitter against Gerald. He 
was only doing as I had persuaded — had forced him to do. 
But he must not keep it up. I could bear it no longer. 
And now I had found that I could make money. We 
could live without Elsie^s fortune. Let her keep it; let 
her live — only let me have my Gerald back with me. 

Why did he not write? Was she worse — dying — and he 
attending her day and night — waiting for the issue before 
he wrote or telegraphed? Yes, perhaps this was the cause 
of his silence. I must wait; I must try to bear this horri- 
ble suspense. 

I did wait — until weeks had gone by. Then I sent a 
message across the cable-wires — just the question, What 
is the matter?^^ It was some days before a reply came. 
It was dated from Eome. It read: 

Have been quite ill. Am recovering. Will return on 
the ‘ Etruria ^ middle of September. 


MY OWK SIN. 


155 


He had gone to Eome and taken the malady that lurks 
in the miasma of the outlying marshes — the well-known 
Eoman fever. He had been ill. and I was not there to 
nurse him. Well, thank Heaven, she was not there, 
either. He had left her at Baden-Baden. That was what 
he had said he would do. Of course she would not risk 
herself in Eome during the summer, even if she had been 
able to travel. Perhaps he had left her for good, or 
very likely he had taken this pretext of going to Eome to 
break off their association forever, as 1 had intimated he 
must do in my letters. He was coming home alone — com- 
ing home to me — and we would at once go away together 
— somewhere — to the West or the far South — and begin 
our married life anew. 

I forgot all the croakings of McKenna, all the jealous 
fears that had assailed me. A rush of joy sent a flush to 
my cheek and made the paper tremble in my fingers. 

Dr. McKenna saw my agitation. He had been watch- 
ing me ever since the dispatch was put into my hand. 

The happy bride and bridegroom are homeward 
bound, I presume?^^ he said with his mocking smile. I 
made no answer. I was too happy now for his cynical tone 
to jar upon me. I was saying to myself: Let him but 
come back, all things will then follow as I will. My hold 
upon him is strongest. 

Dr. McKenna touched my hand. He was bending close 
to me. DonT forget your promise — your oath,^^ he 
said. I turned away my look from his face — from the 
sight of the impish soul peering through those pale eyes. 

I will not forget,'’^ I answered, but there is no use 
in remembering it. Gerald will never be false to me.^^ 

He half shut his eyes with that peculiar shadow of a 
smile hovering about his mouth. 

“ Good. You will not forget,^’ he said, and went away. 

We had moved back into the city, taking a flat upon 
Forty-second Street. Albert was no longer with us. A 


156 


MY OWIiT SIN. 


change had come over this unfortunate one. It came 
while I was so absorbed with my story. He was lonely and 
unhappy, particularly after he had had one of those 
strange seizures — ^epileptic or cataleptic in their nature — 
which always affected his spirits as well as his mind. He 
fell once more under Dr. McKenna’s treatment. Without 
doubt, the man again began to experiment upon him, test- 
ing how far he could deprive him of any will power of his 
own — experiments that unstrung his nerves, and made him 
a passive instrument in McKenna’s hands. The old bond- 
age was re-established. I saw it, when at last— my book 
completed — I came out of the cloud-land of fancy, and had 
leisure to look at my poor friend. His eyes met mine with 
a pitiful reproach and a vague pain in their depths. 

“ You left me,” he whispered, pathetically, ‘‘ and now 
I belong to him again. I wear his chain.” 

When we broke up our quiet little establishment at the 
farm-house, and I hurried my mother into the city, Dr. 
McKenna took charge of Albert, and carried him back to 
the gloomy old house in Beekman Place. He had been 
once to see us. His manner had grown absent-minded and 
erratic again. His eyes wandered around with a strange 
look in them. Sometimes they would rest on me with an 
appealing expression that touched me with remorse. The 
boy had clung to me in the way that one clings to a hand 
held out when one is drowning, and I had failed him. 

I had been too absorbed in my own anxiety, my own 
passion, to think of this poor soul adrift, and to help him 
assert his individuality against the power of his subtle 
guardian. 

Yet, strangely enough, though his mind had clouded 
over again in other respects after he came back under 
McKenna’s domination, his musical genius seemed all the 
more wonderful. It was as though this was the only way 
his soul could rise and be free — through music. I think I 
never heard such melody as dropped from his fingers the 


MY OWK SIK. 


157 


day he came to see us. Beautiful, dreamy notes, then 
soaring, bird-like strains. But at the close he rose like a 
cowed child and said he must hurry back. 

He is pulling me,^^ he said. “ I feel the chain. You 
remember what Juliet says: 

“ I would have you go, 

And yet no further than a wanton’s bird, 

Who lets it hop a little from her hand 
Then plucks it back by the string.” 

I^m the bird, Hilda, and my wing is broken. 

He burst into tears, like a child, and when I tried to 
soothe him he clasped his arm tight about my neck and 
kissed me. 

Take me from him. Keep me. Make me yours!^^ 
he said, passionately, and as he clung to me, and I stood 
pitying him and not knowing what to do, his guardian en- 
tered. At the sound of that stealthy step the boy turned 
around; a frightened, pale look came over his face, and he 
ran out like a hunted thing. 

Dr. McKenna smiled. Oh, that slow, half-mocking, half- 
malicious smile ! 

You have made a conquest,’^ he said. ‘‘But I can^t 
give you the ‘ changeling boy,^ my Titania, unless you 
promise to give me a goodly share of his fortune. 

“ What fortune?^^ 1 asked. “ I did not know Albert 
had a fortune. 

‘‘It is but a modest one now. It will be a noble one 
though when he falls heir to his cousin Elsie. 

“ So you stilJ hope to have that coveted money? It is 
for this you wish to keep poor Albert bound to you body 
and soul?^^ 

He iiodded his head. 

“ That money will yet be mine,^^ he said. “ With that 
money I shall make my dream a splendid reality. Then I 
can return it twofold to the boy, and I can ring this brow 
of yours with a diamond coronet, Hilda, if — 


158 


MY OWJSr SIN. 


He did not finish the sentence. He broke olff suddenly 
and said, glancing around: 

“ You are looking for Prince Charming. The room is 
decked with roses, I see. And you — how pretty you are in 
your new dress! You will show him the contrast between 
the pale, frail Elsie and warm, rich-blooded Hilda. You 
will triumph over your meager rival. Ah! if the only 
chain that bound men were flesh and blood and passionate 
impulse, then would there be no hope for Elsie. But there 
is the bond of pity, the bond of helplessness, the bond of 
clinging tenderness, the bond of gratitude, the strong bond 
of conventional duty, and the yet stronger one of consid- 
eration for worldly interest and social approbation. Elsie 
has odds in her favor. 

I do not fear them. Duty, as well as love, binds Ger- 
ald to me. He is my lover and my husband.''^ 

“ I am very glad that he is,^^ he answered, with a little 
sardonic bow. So you look for him to-day on the 
‘ Etruria 

“ Yes, at three o^clock. You will excuse me. There is 
something I must do before I go down to the pier. I will 
see you some other time.'^^ 

‘‘ You will see me again to-day, and you will be glad to 
see me,’^ he answered. 

‘"Why?^^ I faltered. I had grown to believe that he 
could foresee at least such things as were on the eve of 
happening. Will not Gerald come on the steamer,^^^ 

‘‘ He will come, but not alone. He will not be free to 
give his time to sweet dalliance with Hilda. 

As he said this he turned, as he stood in the door-way, 
and disappeared. But his words fell with prophetic gloom 
on my heart. I threw off the spell, however. 

“ 1 will not believe it,^^ I said to myself. 

I would be happy in the belief that all would be well. Only 
let Gerald come once more within the clasp of my arms — 
the radius of my influence — and 1 would have no fears. Let 


MY OWN SIN. 


159 


Pate, but give him back to me. Elsie^s money might go to 
the bottom of the sea, for aught 1 cared now. Ambition was 
dead within me. Only let Gerald be mine, as he was be- 
fore I dreamed of the deed that had separated us! 

In an hour I would see him. It was now two o^clock. 
The Etruria would arrive about three — or so it had 
been reported in the ship news, which I had eagerly con- 
sulted every day. 

I hurried to the pier, reaching it before the hour of 
three. The steamer was not in sight. 1 took up my posi- 
tion outside at the end of the open, projecting pier. 
Within, and on the landing side without, I had seen a few 
people who seemed also to be waiting for the steamer to 
come in. Among these I thought I recognized Gerald^s 
uncle, accompanied by two gentlemen and several ladies. 

The sight of him made my heart sink. If indeed it was 
he, then he must be looking for his wife and Elsie. They 
were to be with Gerald on the Etruria. . He was not 
coming alone. 

Still, I would not give up the hope that he had already 
left Elsie, and was returning without her. But if it were 
otherwise, if he had not been stpng enough to take this 
step, or if he postponed it out of pity for Elsie until she 
was on her native shores once more, then I would strengthen 
his will with my own. I would speedily bring him to do 
as I now so ardently wished and resolved— leave Elsie at 
once. 

I sat down in the same place where three months and a 
half ago I had stood watching Gerald sail away, with Dr. 
McKenna watching me. An old> 3 ailor had brought me a 
seat and had assured me that the steamer would be in, but 
not exactly on time. 

I had waited more than half an hour when she came in 
sight. There were people standing on her decks, and I 
raised my lorgnette with a trembling, eager hand, and put 
it to my eyes. In a moment I had distinguished Gerald. 


160 


MY OWN SIN. 


There he stood, and near him there were only two men. 
She was not there. 

He was leaning over the rail, and he, too, placed a glass 
to his eyes while I looked. He recognized me and waved 
his handkerchief quickly, as though he feared to be ob- 
served. 1 answered the signal, and we continued to look 
at each other, while the steamer rapidly drew nearer the 
landing-point. 

Something drew my attention, and when I looked again 
Gerald was no longer alone. She was beside him. She 
had her hand on his arm. One hope was destroyed, but I 
strengthened myself to bear it. It was no matter — 1 would 
change this with one interview. 

1 scanned her form — her features — as well as I could 
through the glass, but she wore a loose wrap, and a veil 
was blowing about her face. 

I could get but an intimation of how she looked; but 
there was something in the firmer poise and fuller outline 
of her figure that told of increased strength and health 
since 1 had seen her last. 

As the steamer came nearer I saw Gerald make what I 
took to be a warning gesture, and 1 dropped my veil and 
sat down, waiting. 

He would come to me. He would go home with me. 
Tea would be waiting for us — a beautiful little tea — the 
table decorated with fiowers and grapes. 

The Etruria steamed up to the landing, and the 
^ang-plank was thrown out. Gerald made me another 
furtive sign. I interpreted it to mean that I was to keep 
quietly seated and wait until he had seen Elsie in the car- 
riage with her aunt. Then he would come to me. 

Alas! that 1 must stand aside, veiled and unacknowl- 
edged, like a secret mistress, instead of coming joyfully 
forward to be embraced as a wife! But this would only be 
for a little while — a very little while — I said to myself, 
the blood tingling in my veins as I saw Elsie^s face — 


MY OWl^ SIN. 


161 


thin still, btit no longer death-like — only delicate — and 
with a soft tint on her cheeks and a light in her eyes. Her 
step, too, was no longer tottering as she walked beside 
Gerald. 

I saw him lead her carefully along the gang-way — saw 
them met by their friends with joyful greetings and ex- 
clamations of pleasure at the improvement in Elsie and of 
regret at Gerald^s looks. For Gerald was looking pale 
and worn. 

“ It was the Roman fever, I heard him say. I knew 
something beside the fever had given him that anxious, 
care-worn look. I loved him more dearly for the paleness 
that made him look more noble in my eyes. He, too, had 
suffered anxiety, and he had not the physical rebound that 
belonged to my exuberantly vital nature. He gave me no 
other look, though I watched for one through my thick 
veil. He stood a little while on the pier, shaking hands 
with his friends and talking to them; then he moved away, 
with Elsie on his arm, in the wake of the plump aunt and 
her gaunt spouse, and with the others walking beside 
them. 

“ The carriage has been waiting a good hour,^^ I heard 
Mr. Oldridge say. 

I stood up as they moved past, and Gerald, half turning 
his head, gave me one swift, secret glance and a nod 
scarcely perceptible. 

Then I waited until all the passengers had left the 
steamer, except a few busy sailors and a ship^s officer. 

Would Gerald not come at all? Would he go on in the 
carriage with Elsie, and know that I — his wife — was stand- 
ing here unkissed, unspoken to after that long, torturing 
absence? 

Fierce, bitter feelings filled my heart, and when Gerald 
came at last, with a hurried step, and haste and fiurry 
showing in his face, I turned upon him eyes burning with 
resentment. 


6 


MY OWN SIK. 


16:^ 

He came to my side. He drew me to him and kissed me 
quickly, first looking hurriedly around to make sure that 
he was not observed. 

“ My darling/^ he said, I came to you the instant I 
could get away, on a pretext that I had left something be- 
hind in the vessel. I am afraid it was not prudent for you 
to come to meet me, dearest. 

“ I wanted to see you,^^ was all I could say. My throat 
felt hot and parched. 

know that, my darling. I was dying to see you, 
Hilda; but this public place is not one for our meeting. 
There is the purser looking at us. He knows me, and this 
stolen interview naturally excites suspicion. 

‘‘-Let it,^^ I said; “you are doing nothing wrong. I 
am your wife.^^ 

I looked full at him as I said this, and I saw him wince. 
But I noted at the same time how very pale he was — how 
changed was the look of his eyes, once so frank and clear. 

“ Were you very ill?^^ I asT^ed, my heart softening. 

“ I was very ill for awhile. I would have died but for 
the faithful attention I had.^^ 

“ Attention? You mean nursing?’^ I asked, quickly. 

“ And a good physician,^^ he answered. 

Then he went on rapidly to praise my looks. 

“You have ripened fast into such a lovely woman, 
Hilda! How sweet your mouth looks — and your cheeks 
are glowing! I am so glad! I feared to find you worn and 
pale. You have taken my advice and had a good rest, 
haven^t you?"'"' 

“A rest from the dress-making,^^ I said; “but Iliad 
other work. Ah! I have a secret for your ears — a grand 
secret, Jerry. But let us go home. Tea is ready for us, 
and' mother and Nell are looking for you.^^ 

A shadow came over his face. 

“ Hilda, darling, I can^t go with you now. They are 


MY OWK SIN. ~ 163 

waiting for me; I must go at once. My uncle wishes to 
see me about business, and — 

“ And Elsie expects you to spend this afternoon with 
her/^ I interposed. 

His pale cheek flushed. 

My aunt will think it strange if I do not/^ he said. 
“ Hilda, you know how I am situated; you know how 
necessary it is to be careful. But I will come to-night — I 
will come by nine o^ clock. Till then, good-bye, dearest. 
Ah! there is that confounded purser looking at us — I 
canT kiss you, dear. I will make up for it to-night. 

He was gone. I was left standing there, the sharp pain 
of disappointment aching in my heart. 

1 went home and locked myself in my room to think. 
But one sole thought possessed my brain. Gerald must 
leave Elsie Vaughn this night. That mad scheme which I 
had instigated must end now. Of course Gerald did not 
wish — did not intend to keep it up; he must have some 
idea as to the best way of getting out of the terrible dilem- 
ma. His was not a bold nature; he would shrink from 
breaking loose at once — taking at once the step of leaving 
Elsie, and leaving the city, his business and his interests. 
Yes, that was natural; but it must be done eventually. 

It was the only thing to do. His former marriage could 
not be avowed now. That would entail not only disgrace, 
but a trial for bigamy. No, there was no alternative now 
but flight. Let him go at once; I would follow. Let him 
leave Elsie at once, or I would go mad. I realized now 
that Elsie was no longer a specter — a creature to be pitied 
only. She was a woman — and oh! the shame, the anguish 
-to me of having forced my husband into the arms of an- 
other woman. 

I realized it now. I felt that punishment had indeed 
fallen upon me. 1 had been made to feel that another had 
a claim upon the being I looked upon as wholly mine — a 
claim that was recognized as paramount to mine. 


164 


MY OWN SIN. 


Was it possible that Gerald loved her — that pale, insig- 
nificant little creature? Oh, no — no! I would not believe 
this — but he must not stay by her side another day — an- 
other night. 1 must demand that. He must go away. 
Oh, if I had money to give him to go somewhere and get 
into business. He has only Elsie^s money. He shall not 
take any more of that. He will not, I know. W ould to 
Heaven he had never touched a cent of that money, and 
that 1 had never heard of it. If only I had some of my 
own to give him. If I could sell my book outright to the 
publishers instead of waiting for it to be bought. Could I 
not do this? Might not Dr. McKenna do it for me? If I 
could only see him this minute! 

I jumped up as the thought came, and uttered, aloud: 

Yes, if I could onJy see Doctor McKenna and ask him 
to — I stopped short with the feeling that he was near. 
Yes, that was his stealthy knock. I threw the door open 
and held out my hand to this man whom I did not love — 
did not trust, yet he had grown necessary to me. 

‘^I told you that I would come; are you glad to see 
me?^^ he said, quietly. 

I am glad,^^ I answered. 

He bowed over my hand, which he held in his soft, 
flabby fingers. 

I am afraid that is due to something apart from your 
desire for my society, he said. 

It is. I — I want to hear about my book.^^ 

It is accepted. They will publish it, and pay you a 
royalty on each book that is bought. 

Will they not buy it outright? Will they not give two 
thousand dollars — two thousand dollars down — for the 
manuscript?^’ 

It may sell for twice that much if you will wait. In 
the opinion of the reader it will be a success — make the ten- 
strike of the season. 

I canT wait. I must have money at once — this very 


MY OWN SIN. 165 

night, if possible. Tell the publishers for me that I will 
take a thousand dollars for the book.-"^ 

“ That would be useless, Hilda. They would not break 
their rules. The book must go on the market and take its 
chances.'’^ 

I wrung my hands, moaning under my breath: 

What shall I do?^^ 

Why do you want money so badly, Hilda?^^ 

That does not matter to you. You have no right to 
ask.^^ 

I have no need to ask. You want money to help you 
play the game against Elsie Vaughn — that game in which 
the precious dandy, Gerald Oldridge, figures as the high 
stake. Well, you will need more than a thousand dollars, 
or even ten times as much. You will lose the game. I 
have warned you already. But you shall have the thou- 
sand dollars. I will buy your story at double the sum and 
take the risk. I will put that card in your hands. I like 
to see the players fairly matched in a game.^*^ 

There is no game,^^ I cried. You shall not talk to 
me so. Doctor McKenna. I have done a foolish thing, a 
senseless, a wicked thing. I have drawn my husband into 
it; now I want to help him to get out of it."^^ 

“ And he’ll refuse your proffered help.'’^ 

He will not! You insult him by saying such a thing. 
My husband loves me. He does not love Elsie Vaughn.” 

‘‘ He may not be madly in love with her; but there are 
other things that influence a man in making or holding a 
marriage.” 

You are thinking pf her money.” 

Yes, of that for one thing. Money, and the considera- 
tion it brings in the social and business world, would weigh 
greatly with Gerald Oldridge. Eeputation would weigh 
more with him — the fear of being branded as dishonorable. 
Then her love for him —” 


166 


MY OWN SIN. 


That love is nothing to him. He does not care for 
her.^’ 

You do not know that. She has a charm of her own. 
It is made up of innocence and sweetness of heart, of gen- 
erosity and love — trustful, tender love. She has poured 
this out upon her husband. Also she has poured her 
money into his hands. Gratitude is a bond between them. 
Duty is another. 

His duty is to me, his wife.^^ 

Believe me, that Elsie Vaughn seems to him this mo- 
ment more like a wife than you do. He regards her with 
more respect — he feels more bound to her. Why? ask 
your flashing eyes. Because the marriage was open. It 
had the sanction of Church and society. She is his ac- 
knowledged wife. You seem to him like a mistress. 

‘‘ You insult me — you madden me!^^ I cried, stamping 
my foot. “Go away. I will not take your money; I 
will not listen to your cruel assertions or your counsel. 

“ You will accept both, because you need them. Here 
— I will write the check for two thousand dollars, in con- 
sideration of which you convey to me all interest in your 
manuscript. Does that please you?^'’ 

Yes, yes. It is a great favor. I will tell you, for you 
know it already, that I want the money that I may put it 
into Gerald^s hand and say, ‘ Go away. I will come to 
you. Leave Elsie at once. ^ 

And if he refuses you will keep your promise — you 
will denounce him?'^ 

1 will keep my promise. I am safe in saying so. I 
will not be called upon to denounce Gerald. He will not 
forsake me. Love and duty bind him to.me.^^ 

He bent his head, with that mocking gesture and 
shadowy smile, as he held out to me the check he had just 
signed with the queer cabalistic letters of his name. 

I thanked him, and then I said: 


MY OWN SIN. 167 

Now I will ask you to leave me alone. I can not bear 
any companionship. 

He bowed. 

“ I will leave you certainly; but before midnight you 
will summon me again — if not by word, then by thought 
and wish. 

He went. I was left alone, witl^the fears he had fully 
conjured up for company. 


CHAPTEE XX. 

What torture is like the torture of suspense? What 
agony like that of waiting for a blow to fall on your naked 
"heart, dreading the worst, yet hoping it may be averted? 

Such torture was mine during the remaining hours of 
that September afternoon and evening. At last 1 took 
chloral to tide me over it. 

At eight o^clock I roused myself from the artificial quiet 
induced by the drug, and set about preparing for the inter- 
view with Gerald. 

I must pit myself againt my rival, it seems, I said to 
myself, with a mirthless laugh. ‘ ^ I must bring what ad- 
vantages 1 have against this Elsie, with her goody-goodness 
and her money, her infiuential friends and the blessing of 
Church and society to back her. I have my claim upon 
Gerald, my old hold upon him, my strong determination, 
and what good looks I may possess. 

I looked in the mirror; I was deadly pale. The black hair 
disheveled about my cheeks and temples made them look 
yet more white. But I would have color, I knew. Fort- 
unately I had the thin, sensitive skin that soon glows with 
excitement. And the fever at my heart would make my 
dark eyes sparkle. With a sensitive, nervous brunette, 
such as 1 was, all possibilities of 4)^^auty come out when 
passion or excitement fires the heart. I would glow in a 


168 


MY OWN SIN. 


few minutes through this whirl of emotion that chloral had 
checked for awhile. 

I arranged my hair into its many soft, black, lusterless 
coils, then I put on my gown — a red India silk with a 
front of thin red net, through which my white throat and 
bosom showed gleamingly. It was sleeveless, save for folds 
of the red net that fell away, showing my arms to the 
white globes of the shoulders. 

I took out my fan of satin and carved sandal-wood, 
painted with pomegranate blossoms, and fluttered it nerv- 
ously as I stood before the mirror. There was color and 
sparkle enough now in my face. I smiled, well pleased at 
the dark, flashing picture. Then a quick thought pierced 
me. 

‘‘It is as McKenna said; I am more like the mistress 
than the wife. Elsie wears to-night a simple white dress — 
I am sure of it — and her smile is calm and sweet, and her 
presence quiet, restful, and home-like. The aura of the 
wife is about her; she appeals to his instinct of protection, 
to his love of domestic purity and quiet. Alas! there is 
nothing restful or wife-like about me. Yet there might 
have been had I been circumstanced like Elsie Vaughn. 
But no matter; he is mine, and mine he shall be. He 
shall not return to her to-night. ^ 

The clock began to strike nine as I spoke. Every stroke 
seemed to fall upon my naked nerves. My eyes were on 
the door, my ears intent for his step upon the stairs. 

But the seconds ticked away and he did not come. 

It was ten minutes past nine when at last I heard his. 
well-known tread upon the stairs. He came in dressed in 
rich black, looking pale and thin; but it was a pallor and 
a thinness that became him. Never had I seen him look 
so distinguished; never had his features seemed so flnely 
chiseled. 

I came to meet him, smiling and holding out my hands. 
His eyes caught Are; he clasped me in his arms and 


MY OWN SIN. 


169 


strained me to his breast; his passionate kisses burned 
upon my lips. Then he suddenly put me from him. He 
stood looking at me silently. His face expressed a strug- 
gle. Love was there, but also pain and indecision. 

At last he sighed deeply, and again drew me to him. 

“ Hilda, he breathed, with his lips against mine — 
Hilda, how sweet — how dear you are! How can I give 
you up? I can not!^^ 

I should hope not,^^ I said, laughing and laying my 
head against his breast. I felt happy and reassured. 

You will never be called upon to give me up until death 
comes, my beloved.'’'’ Then, half playfully, half seriously, 
as I looked up into his face: ‘‘ But you have managed to 
do without me all these months, I find.'’'’ 

They have been unhappy months to me, Hilda. I 
would not tell you how unhappy; I did not want to add to 
your anxiety. I wanted you to get strong and well this 
summer — I am so glad you could leave that unsuitable 
work — so I tried to write cheerfully. But now — you see 
in my face that I have suffered.'’^ 

Yes, I see it, dearest,'’'’ I answered, smoothing out the 
lines in his forehead with my fingers, as he sat, his head 
leaning against my breast. 

It is I who did it— I who caused these lines. Forgive 
me. I can hardly forgive myself. 

Hilda, you did not know — neither of us realized the 
full wrong and misery of what we did — the wrong to our- 
selves, and the wrong to her — the innocent one. 

She has not suffered as we have. She did not know, 
and she had you, and you have been kind. 

I tried to be, but, oh, Hilda! I have felt like a villain 
all along. And she so trusting— so loving — '’^ 

I crushed my lips together to keep back an impatient ex^ 
clamation. It was the gall of bitterness to hear him speak 
so feelingly of her — to know that he was making pity for 
her almost a first consideration. 


170 


MY OWN SIN. 


But I answered gently: 

We will not talk of the past. It is useless. We made 
a horrible mistake. The fault was mine. It was through 
my mad desire to see you rich and myself your proud, 
acknowledged wife. It was my sin, and I have suffered 
for it. Oh, Jerry! I have suffered cruelly, and it is bit- 
terness to me that I have made you suffer. Would I could 
have borne all the consequences of my sin.'’'’ 

“ It was my sin also, Hilda. I was a man. I knew 
more of life than you. I ought to have withstood your 
persuasions; I ought to have been strong enough to put 
aside the temptation when it was held out by your hand, 
my sweet Eve. Ah, Hilda! the trail of the serpent is over 
it all— all the good that we have gained by that sin. 

We have gained nothing — nothing. I have lost you 
for four miserable months, and you, too, have been un- 
happy. And you have blamed me. Well, I deserve it; 
but oh, Gerald! I will make up for it in the future. I will 
be so good, so helpful. I have discovered that I have a 
talent — a gift that can be turned into money. This is my 
secret. How sweet it will be to earn money to help you!^^ 

His brow contracted. 

Don^t speak of money !^^ he exclaimed. I hear the 
word enough from other lips. Oh, we will have no lack of 
money, my Hilda! That is one pleasure I have purchased, 
at least. I shall be able to give you all you want. I have 
brought a full purse for you to-night. And I have brought 
a little gift for you, dearest — something that will go well 
with your radiant gown. 

He was unwrapping a little ebony box as he spoke. He 
touched a spring, and the lid flew back. On the purple 
cushion inside flashed a pin and ear-rings of diamonds and 
rubies. 

I looked at them a moment, then I shut down the lid 
and gave back the box. 

What is the matter, Hilda? Don^t you like them?^^ 


MY OWN SIN. 


171 


They are beautiful, and I thank you for thinking to 
get them for me, dear Jerry, but 1 will not take them. I 
will take nothing bought with Elsie Vaughn^s money — nor 
must you. We will pay back all we have been forced to 
use; after awhile, when we are able, as we will be, we will 
send it back to her. She need not know whence it comes. 

Send it back? What do you mean?^^ 

“ I mean that you must go away at once. That is the 
best way out of this terrible complication. Go away with- 
out saying a word. I will come to you, and we will begin 
life anew, in some place where we are not known. 

He remained silent, looking down, a tumult of emo- 
tion in his expressive face. He lifted his eyes at last. 

Hilda, he said, I can not go away; 1 have to-night 
signed a business contract; I have entered into partner- 
ship with my uncle. 

‘‘With Elsie ^s money? The contract is null and void, 
for you have no right to her money. 

‘ ‘ I have been using it pretty freely for four months, all 
the same.^^ 

“We will pay that back.^^ 

“ How, I should like to know?^^ he exclaimed, bitterly. 
“ And how am I to get away, even? I have no money, 
except hers.-^^ 

“ 1 have money — enough for that, and more. See, here 
is a check for two thousand dollars. It is mine, I give it 
to you. It will suffice for the present, and I can make 
more. It is the proceeds of a book I have written. There 
are more books in my brain. Take the money, dearest. 
Our scheme has failed. It is too late to regret that we 
ever entered upon it. All now to be thought of is to free 
ourselves — to free you from the wrong position it puts you 
in. That must be done at once. It has been too long de- 
layed already. You must go away. Stay here to-night 
with me, and to-morrow draw the money the check calls 


m 


MT OWN SIN. 


for and go away. Go to some western city — San Fran- 
cisco, Mexico. You can soon gain a foothold there. 

He sat and listened to me. His face was white and agi- 
tated. He did not speak for a moment, then he said: 

Gain a foothold? Can I gain, too, my own lost self- 
respect? Can I forget that by my cowardly flight I will 
have lost friends, reputation, honor — everything?'^ 

Do 1 then count for nothing? I have said 1 would 
come to you." 

He bent his lips to my bare shoulders. 

Yes, my beloved, you count for much, but — " 

‘‘You are hesitating, stammering. Tell me— speak out 
at once: How do you propose to extricate yourself from 
this situation?" 

He looked at me with haggard eyes. 

“ Before God, I do not know!" he said. 

“ You surely know that you can keep up this farce no 
longer. The object of it has failed. Elsie Vaughn will 
live! The pretense that you are her husband should cease 
— must cease — this very night. You surely do not wish to 
keep it up? Why do you hesitate?" 

“ It would kill her!" he said, huskily. “ Her life is 
bound up in me. If I should desert her she would die!" 

I sprung ‘ to my feet, my brain whirling with fierce pas- 
sion. 

“ Let her die!" I cried. “ What is that to you? Your 
duty is to me, not to her!" 

“ Not to her? Do I owe nothing to her — she who has loved 
me all her life, who has trusted me so utterly? I owe it to her 
that the burden of debt is lifted from me. I owe my life to 
her. It was she who saved me at Eome. She came to me; she 
would not be kept away. Frail as she is, she nursed me 
night and day. She has heaped kindness and benefits upon 
me." 

“ And you love her?" 


MY O^VN SIK. . 173 

My voice was steady. The very strength of the passion 
within me made me quiet. 

I would be a brute not to feel gratitude and esteem for 
her after all she has done for me. 

‘‘Gratitude and esteem! Speak the truth to me^ Ger- 
ald; let there be truth between us at least. You love Elsie 
Vaughn?^^ 

“ I have lived with her nearly four months as her hus- 
band. She has given up her very soul to me; she has been 
by my side every day; she has slept in my arms like a 
child. Her very trust and helplessness endeared her to 
me. She— 

“ Enough!"^ 

I silenced him with that cry of despair. I reeled as from 
a blow. He sprung to my side and threw his arms about 
me. His touch brought strength to me— strength born of 
passionate anguish. I pushed him from me with all my 
might. 

“ Do not touch me! You have deceived me — you, who 
swore to love me always I cried. 

“ Hilda, 1 do love you. No woman has such power to 
thrill me as you do — to make my pulses throb and burn.^^ 

“ You love me with the sensuous passion a man feels for 
his mistress; you love Elsie with the tenderness a man 
feels for his wife.^^ 

I saw in his eyes that he could not gainsay my words. 

And now go on,^^ I said. “ Let us understand each 
other. What is your proposition? What do you intend to 
do?^^ 

“ My hands are tied,^^ he answered, gloomily. “ Turn 
which way I will, it is wrong and dishonor. Hilda, why 
can not things continue to be as they are? Be mine in 
secret — my loved and cherished one. All that love and 
money can do to make you happy shall be done.^^ 

“ While you remain to the world the husband of Elsie ?^^ 

“ There is no help for it. It makes mine a miserable 




174 


MY OWK SIK. 


double life, full of dishonor in my own eyes; but what can 
I do? I have wronged Elsie Vaughn unspeakably. It is 
the wrong of the betrayer of innocence and trust, and 
she the child whose mother committed her to my care. 1 
owe my life to her; 1 owe her innumerable kindnesses. 
Can I desert her now, when her life is bound up in me and 
desertion would kill her?"'^ 

Either her or me — you must choose between us. How 
do you dare to insult me — your lawful wife — ^by such a 
proposition? Share my husband ^s love with another wom- 
an? I will kill him first or kill myself. No, either you 
give her up or you give me up forever. If you return to 
her this night or ever again, I will see your face no more. 
I swear — 

Hilda, listen to me.^^ 

I will listen to nothing but your declaration that you 
will leave Elsie. Vaughn this night and never see her face 
again. Will you promise this?^^ 

No, Hilda. 

‘ ‘ Then go, and never speak to me again. Go — 

Hilda, listen to me.^^ 

‘‘ Go!^^ I cried; but do not think I shall let you enjoy 
life while I am wretched and deserted. No, you are not 
quits of me. We shall meet again; we shall meet before 
the bar of the law. To-morrow I will go before a magis- 
trate and denounce you for bigamy. I will publish your 
crime to the world. 

How white he looked! how wild! as prospective disgrace 
and ruin were dashed into his face. 

“ crime !^'' he said, at last. Hilda, had you no 
part in that crime?^^ 

I care nothing for that; I care only for having my re- 
venge upon the man who has deceived me, who has stabbed 
me to the heart. He shall be punished. 

‘"Be it so,^^ he said, with white lips. “ I will take my 
punishment as my just deserts. It is better than coward- 


MY OWK sm. 175 

ly flight; it is better than to desert the woman I have 
wronged so cruelly. 

And have you not wronged me I cried. 

“ Have you forgotten that you forced the necessity of 
wronging you upon me, Hilda? It was against my will — 
against my conscience. But now — 

“ Now — in the face of exposure and disgrace — you re- 
fuse to leave this woman who is not your wife."^^ 

I came close to him and laid my hand on his arm. I 
felt that as he looked at me in the fullness of my physical 
beauty, and the ardent intensity of my nature, he must feel 
the greater charm I possessed. It was my final appeal. 
Warm and passionate entreaty rang in my voice. 

He was fearfully moved. I could see it as he stood look- 
ing down on me. His face was ashen white; his eyes were 
dark with pain. I thought I saw signs of yielding. A 
quiver passed over his mouth; its stern lines seemed to re- 
lax. I would — I must triumph. 

He spoke at last. Slowly, resolutely, the words dropped 
from his pale lips: 

I refuse to desert the innocent woman I have deceived 
— the woman whose tender care saved my life. 1 refuse to 
desert the mother of my unborn child. 

My hand dropped from his arm. He turned and left 
the room. 


OHAPTEE XXL 

He was gone. I stood, like one turned to stone, staring 
at the door through which he had disappeared. 

He was lost to me forever. He was bound to her — the 
mother of his unborn child. 

I had never dreamed of the possibility of that bond. 
Ah! that made her pre-eminent; that invested her with 
sacredness. It was not enough that she had society on her 
side — relatives and friends and money, and her own ap- 


176 ^ MY OWM SIN. 

pealing helplessness and fondness — ^but she was also the 
mother of his unborn child. 

That gave her a claim above expediency or gratitude. 
She was fragile — her life still hung in the balance, and to 
forsake her would be to kill her, the mother of his child. 

I it was who must be the forsaken one, I was the Hagar 
who must give up my claim to the husband that was mine 
by the law of the land, and mine by this agony of bereave- 
ment that clutched my heart as with a hand of steel. I 
stood there, with Gerald^s last words sounding in my ears 
and Gerald’s last look stamped ineffaceably upon my brain. 

Is this horrible thing a reality.^ Has Gerald forsaken 
me? Has he preferred another to me — to me?” 

It seemed incredible — a miserable dream from which I 
must waken. 

No, it was no dream. There on the violet plush cush- 
ions of the sofa lay the ebony jewel-case, open. He had 
left it there. I caught the red flash of the rubies, and 
snatching up the box I dashed it upon the floor and 
trampled upon it. 

He thinks to treat me like a mistress,” I cried, to 
visit me by stealth — to satisfy me with a secret caress and 
gauds like these — while he gives his life, his cherishing, his 
respect to her. She walks at his side and leans upon his 
arm. She sits beside him at his hearth and his table be- 
fore the eyes of the world — and I must be hidden here like 
a guilty thing. She has my rightful place. Does he dare 
to dream I will let it be? Never, never! I will trample 
upon him as I do upon his gifts; I will have revenge upon 
him and upon her. I will drag him down from his newly 
acquired station. I wiU brand him to the world as a 
felon. Let it cover him with disgrace — let it kill her. I 
will rejoice. It will give my heart the only ease ifc can 
know. Oh, you defled me, Gerald Qidridge. You told 
me to do my worst. But I saw the scared whiteness of 
your face, I know that the agony of your fear almost 


MY OWM SIN. 


177 


equals my own agony of desertion. You are dreading to- 
morrow, and well you may. To-morrow a bomb shall 
burst upon the threshold of your fine bridal home — to-mor- 
row all shall be known. Oh, that it were to-morrow now ! 
Oh, that Brastus McKenna were here to help me work out 
m}^ revenger^ 

The instant after I had spoken I heard a slight rattling 
of the door-knob. 

He is here,^^ I thought. He has watched until Ger- 
ald went away. He knew what the result of this interview 
would be.''^ 

Come in,^^ I said, aloud. 

The door opened, and McKenna entered. 

Welcome, I cried, with a wild laugh. It is just 
midnight — the hour for evil spirits. 1 have summoned 
mine.^^ 

He smiled. 

You flatter me,^^ he said. The devil is a fascinating 
as well as powerful personage. What has happened that 
you welcome me so warmly?^^ 

“ You know what has happened — what you predicted 
and I would not believe. I am deserted — for her!^^ 

‘^And now,^^ he said, ‘^you are ready to fulfill your 
promise 

Yes; to-night, if it were only possible. 

It is possible to make a beginning. I have brought a 
paper for you to sign, that in the event of your — 

“A paper? You were then sure that the interview 
would result as it has?^^ 

I was sure. 

Did you know about — about — 

About the child? Yes, I knew it.-^^ 

‘‘ You are really, then, in league with the evil power. 

He smiled. 

There is no power, evil or good, other than the one 
that is in us— stronger in a chosen few. There was no 


178 


MY OWK SIJT. 


witchcraft in this instance. I knew all that took places 
with our bridal pair while they were in Europe^ because 
Elsie^s maid was a former patient of mine — one of the 
spirits I have under my control. She wrote to me all the 
while. She was slow in obeying my bidding, however. 
Had she done as I directed, you would be happy in your 
Jerry, and I in the fortune that means so much to me. 
But the timid fool hesitated, brought herself under sus- 
picion, and was dismissed by Elsie^s husband. 

Elsie Vaughn has no husband. She is simply my hus- 
band^s mistress. She shall know that to-morrow. 

And the knowledge of it will kill her."^^ 

“ He does not think so. He believes that nothing but 
his desertion would kill her — that she would live and stand 
by him through it all. 

McKenna frowned darkly. 

Live! I do not believe it. She is still frail as a reed 
— and in her condition — why, the blow will kill her as 
surely as if it were a lightning-stroke. And she has made no 
will. Her maid tells me that Gerald would not let her 
make her will in his favor when she was ill at Baden- 
Baden. He loves her, surely. You may have him back — 
when she dies — but you will not have the money. 

I would not have him back for ten million times the 
money! All I want is to punish him for his treachery to 
me,^^ I cried. The blood seemed bursting from my swell- 
ing heart. 

That is bravely spoken. Will you feel that way to- 
morrow, or will you see him again, and let love throttle 
pride, and — 

I will never see him again !^’ - 

It is best to provide against a .woman^s softness of 
heart, so I have brought this written declaration for you to 
sign in the presence of myself and another. Bead it. 

He put the paper before me. A mist swam before my 
eyes, and I could hardly read the words upon the paper^ 


MY OWK SIN. 


179 


written in Erastus McKenna^s cabalistic hand. It was the 
deposition that Gerald Oldridge had been lawfully married 
to me, Hilda Monteagle, more than a year ago, by a mag- 
istrate — since dead — in the town of ; that Gerald Old- 

ridge had lived with me, and acknowledged me as his wife 
to my mother and sister, who had lived in the same house 
with me. 

As I read this there flashed over me a vivid recol- 
lection of that secret marriage^ — my own suggestion — of the 
visit to the town and the return by steamboat, when we sat 
on the deck, hand in hand, while the rich sunset melted 
into purple twilight and the evening star came out. How 
happy we were! How fond and sweet was my Gerald! 
And during that year of married life how kind and tender 
he had been, how happy he had made me, how good he 
had been to my mother and to Hell! And now I was 
bringing down ruin upon his head. 

“Is this paper all that is needed for the purpose I 
asked, looking up at McKenna, who was closely watching 
me. 

“Ho, it would be necessary that you make this charge 
of bigamy against your husband in the presence of a mag- 
istrate. But I want you to sign this declaration as an 
earnest that your promise to make the public charge will 
be kept.'’^ 

“Armed with this signed paper, however, you could 
make the charge of bigamy yourself, and cause me to be 
summoned to swear that I was Gerald Oldridge^s wife. 

“ Yes, I believe it is your full intention now to keep your 
promise; but a woman is an uncertain quantity, particu- 
larly when she loves. You might, for aught I know, see 
this wildly beloved one to-morrow and accede to his propo- 
sition to accept a division of his affections. 

At the mention of that proposal my blood burned again. 
I caught up the pen. 

“ Wait one moment,''^ McKenna said. “ I wish to have 


180 


MY OWN SIN. 


another witness to your signature beside myself. Albert is 
outside the door.^^ 

Albert! Does he know?^^ 

He knows nothing, except that 1 wished him to follow 
me. He will not read the paper — he will merely affix his 
name as a witness to your having signed it. 

He was opening the door while he spoke. He called 
Albert in a low tone, and the boy appeared at once in the 
door-wa}^ He had been standing all this while in the hall. 
He was pale and languid-looking. He came up to me and 
took my hand. His eyes had taken on their old appealing, 
hunted look; they searched my face sadly. My rich dress, 
the flowers withering on my fevered bosom formed a con- 
trast, 1 know, to my face, white and haggard with anguish. 
Hilda, you are ill,^^ he said, with emotion. 

I shook my head. ^ 

You are ill within. Something has happened to make 
you unhappy. Your hand is cold; I feel it tremble. 

He pressed my hand to his lips. 

Dr. McKenna frowned impatiently. 

Albert,^^ he said, the hour is late; Hilda ought to be 
in bed. We came here on business; she wishes us to wit- 
ness her signature to this document. It is a legal paper — 
the purport of it does not concern you. Hilda, we are 
waiting for you to sign your name.-’^ 

I took the pen he handed to me wet with ink. I bent 
over the paper. In another instant I would have dashed 
the name, ‘‘ Hilda Monteagle Oldridge,^^ across the page; 
but a touch stayed my hand — the touch of Albertis thin, 
pale fingers upon my wrist. 

I looked up. Even in that moment of absorption in 
self, my heart bled to notice how sunken and dark-rimmed 
were the beautiful eyes of the boy. They were looking at 
me with imploring earnestness. 

Hilda,^^ he said, in a hurried whisper, what is that 


MY OWN SIN. 181 

paper? Are you going to sign yourself to be a slave to 
him?^^ 

He sent a quick, frightened look at his guardian, who 
stood a step or two away from us. 

No, Albert,^^ I said; I am signing myself free of 
some one — some one who has made me suffer. I am going 
now to make him suffer in turn.^^ 

And will that cure your pain?^^ 

It will be a just revenge. 

^‘Ah! Then he made you suffer maliciously, and you 
did nothing to him — you did nothing to bring it on your- 
self?^^ 

Who has given you the right to cross-question me?^^ I 
cried, impatiently. 

But his words stirred a counter-current of thought and 
feeling within me. Swift as lightning came the answer of 
my inner consciousness to his question. 

I did everything to bring the suffering on myself. I was 
the author of the wrong. And Gerald — my heart told me 
that he had done what was most natural, most honorable, 
under the circumstances. He had said truly that he was 
left no right ground to stand upon. In the complications 
that surrounded him he could only see that his duty was to 
the innocent girl whom he had betrayed — the girl who had 
loved him always and had saved his life — the mother of 
his child, yet unborn — whom to forsake would be to slay. 
His first duty was to this innocent, betrayed one — and I 
felt it. I had never truly admired and honored Gerald 
Oldridge until I saw him rise out of that soft weakness I 
had been wont to find so pliant, and refuse to desert the 
woman I had caused him to take to his arms. Through 
all my rage and despair at his refusal there had been a 
thrill of admiration for the man who for the first time de- 
fied me and refused to come under my control. 

He had been in the right — as far as was in his power in 
this horrible complication — he had acted on honor "'s side. 


182 


MY OWN SIN. 


1 was reapiDg what I had sown. Elsie V'aughn would have 
to sujffer for no wrong-doing of her own. This is what the 
voice within cried out — all in a breathes space — as 1 sat 
with posed pen and looked into Albertis face. ' 

I threw the pen upon the table. 

I will not sign/^ I said, and seizing the paper, I tore 
it across. 

McKenna^s face darkened with sudden fury. His eyes 
shot green lightnings, as he sprung to my side, uttering 
an oath between his set teeth. He grasped my wrist, and 
fastened his eyes upon me. 

You must sign this paper,^^ he said. 

Then came the struggle of two strong spirits. He had 
obtained the mastery over me once — that gave him a hold 
upon me — but that once was when 1 was in a passive, 
dreamy condition. Now my nature was aroused; every 
nerve-cord was strung to keen tension. My spirit was in 
arms. I gave back McKenna^s look with one of defiance. 

I will not sign it/’ 1 said. 

He felt that he had failed. His countenance changed at 
once. He drew me a step away, and said, in his melliflu- 
ous whisper: 

Do you thus yield everything to her? Are you so 
weak, so spiritless? Think what you will ^ain — the sweet- 
ness of revenge, the . sundering of those two whose happi- 
ness and good fortune is built upon your misery. And 
there is another thing. Sign that paper^ and you will be a 
rich woman — able to carry out all your ambitious plans — 
to queen it in society with the best. Half of the fortune 
that will fall into my hands shall be yours. 

I wrung my hands free of his long, clinging fingers. 

I wanted money only for my lovers sake,^^ I cried. 
‘‘ Love no longer exists for me. Ambition is dead. All 
the gold in the world would not tempt me now.^^ 

He ground his teeth together. 

‘‘ Cursed senselessness of women he muttered. 


MY OWJSr SIN. 


183 


Nothing counts with them but love. They must burn 
their wretched hearts to ashes before a glimmer of common 
sense can be made to reach them!^^ 

Then he wheeled round furiously upon Albert. 

You are the cause of this. You shall suffer for it/’ 
he said, in the hissing whisper of concentrated rage. 

The boy cowered under his look as under a blow. His 
face grew livid, a contortion passed over it, and he fell 
upon the floor. 

You have killed him!^^ I cried. “ He is dying!^^ 

He was writhing on the floor in convulsions. 

McKenna bent over him. He took him up in his arms 
and laid him on the sofa. Then he passed his hands over 
his head and body, rapidly at first, then more slowly. 
The spasmodic motion of the limbs ceased, only a slight 
shiver ran now and then through the slender frame. The 
livid color died out of his beautiful face, leaving it white as 
marble. He lay quiet upon the lounge, his eyes closed, 
the shut lids twitching now and then. 

McKenna stood looking at him. He, too, was pale. 
He drew labored breaths, as though the effort to quiet the 
stricken boy had exhausted him. 

He will be himself when he wakes out of this stupor,^ ^ 
he said. He deserved to suffer for his miserable med- 
dling. But for that you would have acted like a woman of 
nerve and brain — you would have signed that assertion, 
and ratified it to-morrow by oath — you would have tri- 
umphed over the man who has scorned you — you would 
have separated him from the woman who is lying in his 
arms at this — ^ ’ 

Silence 1 cried out. His words were a sharp knife 
in my heart. Go away — leave me — go!’^ 

My words reached the ears of the tranced boy. His eyes 
flashed open, his cold hand clutched mine. 

DonT send me away from you, Hilda, he pleaded. 
DonT let him take me. Let me stay!^^ 


184 


MY OWN SIN. 


You shall stay/^ I answered, bending over him. 

You shall not go back to him. From this hour I stand 
between you and him; from this hour I shall prove my- 
self strong enough to stand against him in my own stead 
and yours. 

My defiant eyes flashed upon McKenna as 1 spoke. He 
looked at me in silence a moment., then he suddenly bent 
his head. 

My red-robed queen/^ he said, I never admired you 
so much as I do this minute. Hilda, you deserve to be my 
wife. You shall be some day — when my name is in the 
mouths of all men, and I have gold enough to ring that 
proud young brow with a flame-wreath of diamonds. All 
shall be in good time. Do you think 1 give up my purpose 
because you fail me? No; I shall only try another tack. 
Good-night, Hilda. — 


CHAPTER XXIT. 

How often had 1 said to myself, ‘‘ without Gerald^s love 
I could not live.^^ His love had been given, it seemed to 
me, in compensation for so much that had been denied 
me. I had known the sweetness of his sympathy — the joy 
of congenial comradeship — the thrill of tender and sacred 
union — what would existence be to me if these were with- 
drawn? Nothing. I would not accept the barren gift. 

But I did accept it. I lived on without Gerald — nay, 
with the consciousness that he was near me, yet was not 
mine. The heart can bear so much without breaking. 
Yet life is not the same. It is a bird that drags a broken 
wing. 

Early in the morning after that fateful night, I sent a 
messenger to Gerald with a note — just three lines: 

Do not fear anything from me. I will not harm you. 
Be happy and prosperous. All I ask of you is never to let 
me see you again. 


MY SIK. 


185 


In reply he wrote an impassioned letter full of self- 
reproaches and entreaties that I would see him again. This 
I did not answer. He came that evening. I was looking for 
him. 1 saw him from the window through the parted cur- 
tains as he came up the steps from the street. How pale 
and wretched he looked! how my heart went out to him! 
But I must not see him. Oh, what could it avail? What 
good could it do? Nothing could be effected. There was 
no way out of this dreadful difficulty. Nothing could un- 
ravel this horrible complication — nothing but Elsie^s 
death or mine. Not even divorce could cut this Gordian 
knot, because divorce would require that the crime of 
bigamy be made public — the crime I had instigated. 

The servant who went to the door gave the message: 

Miss Monteagle can not see you.^^ 

^^1 must see her,^^ he exclaimed, and pushing the girl 
aside, he ran up the stairs — ran half-way up, then paused; 
and I, who stood listening with a hushed heart, knew that 
he was thinking during that pause — What can this meet- 
ing bring to us but pain?^^ He descended the steps and 
went out without saying a word to the servant. 

He wrote that night. He did not again ask to see me, 
he only begged that I would use a sum of money he had 
deposited in my name in the New York Bank of Ex- 
change. I went the next day to the bank, drew out the 
money and deposited it in his name in a down-town bank 
with which I knew he dealt. I inclosed the certificate of 
deposit with only the words: 

I thank you, but it is impossible to accept any more 
favors from that source. 1 will repay what I have already 
unfortunately taken. 

After this, silence fell between us — silence, and to me, 
desolation and heart-solitude. 1 was saved from utter de- 
spair by two things- — my pen and my home. I was writ- 
ing a story that had already been promised to a magazine. 


186 


MY OWN SIN. 


The publisher was also the publisher of my book. The 
task gave me occupation and purpose, though the keenest 
stimulus no longer existed. 

My home was sweet to me, as home with love and com- 
fort in it must be to every woman. It was a bright, pretty 
fiat with a chestnut-oak shading the street in front, and a 
bow-window full of fiowering plants. The parlor had por- 
tiere curtains of India silk, with amber background strewn 
with branches of red coral. The carpet, the wall-paper, 
and the furniture showed the same tints of amber and 
coral. Fitting into a niche at one end was Alberta's piano. 
Dr. McKenna had sent it to him a few days after he took 
up his abode with us. 

The doctor had made no attempt to force Albert back 
to Beekman Place. The thought occurred to me that he 
was willing that the boy should regain a part of his lost 
strength by staying away from him and the effect of his 
‘‘ treatment. He could not fail to see that his experi- 
ments upon Albertis delicately strung nerve-system threw 
it out of tune — jangled the sweet bells of reason and 
undermined his frail health. He was constantly tempted 
by his craze for experiment to tamper with the exquisite 
mechanism of this fine but delicate nature, but it was not 
his policy to destroy the being on whom depended his hope 
of getting possession of Elsie’s money. This money, 
which he had determined should be his that he might carry 
out his wild scheme of the spirit-battery, could only come 
to him through Albert. 

There could be no doubt that he would control it solely 
if it fell to Albert by Elsie dying under age or before she 
made a will, for Albert was like a baby, so far as money 
was concerned. He knew nothing about what McKenna 
was doing with his present fortune, considerable in itself. 

He did not lack for spending money, it is true. My 
mother would take nothing from him for his stay with us, 
but he constantly brought home pretty trifles for the 


MY OWN SIN. 


187 


house, together with flowers, books, and pictures, and he 
dropped a gold piece into Nelks savings-bank so often that 
she hid it out of sight. 

After he recovered from the depressing and stupefying 
effects of the last attack, he grew brighter and better in 
health. He devoted himself to his music, but he was 
always ready to talk or to read to us, and sometimes he 
was merry and mischievous — playing pranks upon Nell. 
If Dr. McKenna came in when he was in one of these 
moods it was strange to see how suddenly his face clouded 
and he became melancholy and silent. 

Nell was a great comfort to me in those dark days. I 
took her with me into my room — the pretty room I had 
fitted up so carefully to please Gerald. She slept in my 
arms at night, and I would stifle my sobs in the lone night 
hours for fear of ^^aking her. In spite of this she some- 
times awoke. I think her sensitive little soul instinctively 
felt the wakeful misery of the one that lay beside her. 
Her little fingers would touch my cheek softly to assure 
herself that I was crying, then her hand would caress me 
gently, stroking my hair and my cheek. This was her 
only mode of consoling, except sometimes a murmured, 
‘‘ I love you, Hilda;^^ but I knew her sympathy with me 
was intense — too intense. It was affecting her health. 
She had never been a robust child; now she was white as a 
lily. 

She had grieved over the loss of Gerald. For awhile she 
thought he was dead. The night of our short interview — 
the night of that eagerly longed-for day of his return, 
when he had failed to sit down with us to the pretty tea- 
table that Nell had decorated with flowers — the child 
sobbed herself to sleep at a late hour. I had not seen her 
that afternoon. I could not bear to hear her loving prat- 
tle about Jerry when my heart was being consumed with 
suspense. 

She did not know that he had come at all that night. I 


188 


MY OWN SIN. 


had locked the door communicating with the parlor. I 
opened it later to admit my mother. She came in, and we 
sat beside the lounge where Albert lay in the half sleep, 
half stupor that seemed to follow his strange attacks. It 
was then 1 told her that I and my husband were separated. 
She believed that his uncle was the cause of the estrange- 
ment — that he had come to know of the secret marriage 
and his opposition had: broken it up. She broke out into 
passionate blame of Gerald. I checked her at once. 

‘^He has not been to blame. He has done me no 
wrong, I said. 1 can not explain to you. I can only 
tell you the marriage is now as though it had never been.^^ 

With this she was forced to be content. She had always 
accepted what I did without question. To think for her- 
self was not her forte — my poor, gentle mother. She puz- 
zled over this strange rupture. 1 often caught her eyes 
fixed upon me with pity and bewilderment. I hid my 
suffering from her as much as I could, and after awhile 1 
think she believed that I was getting over it. 

NelTs intuitions were deeper. The child watched me all 
the time, and tried to comfort me in many silent, delicate 
ways. She believed that Jerry was dead. The impression 
came to her from my mother^s tears and my white, un- 
happy face the morning after the denouement in the 
locked parlor. My mother told her she must never speak 
Jerry^s name — a name that had been on her lips a dozen 
times every day. She tried hard to bear this in mind, and 
when she chanced to forget she would look at me quickly 
and grow pale with the fear that she had hurt me. 

One day I had gone to the business part of town on some 
errand and taken Nell with me. She was nearly always 
my companion now. I liked to feel her little fingers cling- 
ing to mine as we walked along. I went into a bric-a-brac 
store, leaving her just outside, entranced at the fortune- 
telling trick of some tiny green birds carried about by an 
old Italian and his wife. 


MY OWN SIN. 


189 


Presently she came hurriedly into the store. Her lace 
was all agitation, her eyes big and burning with excite- 
ment. She ran up to me. 

He is not dead/^ she panted. Jerry is not dead. I 
saw him just now. He caught me up in his arms and 
kissed me. 1 told him to come in here. You were in 
here. He shook his head and said he was in a hurry, and 
he went on. But he will come to-night. I know he will 
come. 

“ He will never come again, 1 said, and it was all I 
could utter. 

She looked at me in bewilderment. Then her lips began 
to tremble. She turned away, the tears rolling silently 
down her cheeks. 

After that she never spoke of him, and she seemed to 
know by intuition that I had lost Jerry, whom I loved so 
well, and my heart was broken. She ministered to me in 
many sweet ways, and tried to divert me, as did her older^ 
but hardly less child-like comrade, Albert. 

The days dragged on. I wrote with feverish energy 
sometimes; then, when a mood of restlessness seized me, I 
would call Albert to play for me; or I would rush out and 
walk in the streets, the park — anywhere so that 1 had mo- 
tion to help deaden pain. 

Dr. McKenna came to see me occasionally. I hated and 
feared the man; but his talk, his • presence, had a fascina- 
tion for me. Besides, I wanted to find out from what he 
might let fall what new scheme he was maturing to get 
possession of the money he had set his heart upon. The 
desire to possess it had become a craze with him. I did 
not believe he would give up trying; his fertile brain would 
hatch some new plan. 1 knew he had been denied admis- 
sion to Elsie, and that her maid, who was in his pay, had 
been dismissed. Did her friends suspect his evil inten- 
tions? I do not think so. Elsie had probably some vague 
distrust of him or his skill. She had resisted his influence 


190 


MY OWM SIM. 


when she was in a manner in his power, and afterward her 
watchful aunt had discovered that his presence acted badly 
upon his patient, and had caused him to be dismissed. 

He was still sanguine of getting the legacy that had 
caused so much trouble, and that could be gotten only by 
the death of Elsie. Would he gain his object? I was con- 
sumed with the desire to know. I believed he would 
finally compass whatever he undertook. His strength of 
purpose was marvelous. 

I found myself somehow expecting every day to hear of 
the death of Elsie Vaughn. Did I wish to hear it? I 
knew in my heart I did. The thought of her was a con- 
stant poison to my days. It was death to peace and sleep. 
I said to myself that I would never claim Gerald Oldridge 
as my husband again — I had given him up. But, oh — 
thought of keenest anguish — I had given him up to an- 
other! 

It was against her that my heart was hardened to cruelty 
— almost to murder. I could bear to live without my hus- 
band; but to know that he was living with another was a 
thought that drove me often to the verge of madness. 

And McKenna read in my eyes the secret of my thought. 
He knew that I had struggled in vain against the mad 
longing to hear Elsie Vaughn was dead. His eye met mine 
with the significance of mutual understanding. I shrunk 
from this community of crime. I shuddered with horror 
at myself, and yet when he would speak of his wild scheme 
—the odic battery — and say, I shall soon have money to 
make it a success — I am only biding my time, I felt a 
thrill of guilty joy run through me. 


CHAPTER XXIIL 

Ome morning I waked up to find myself famous. My 
book had appeared, and it had created a ripple in the read- 
ing world. It was the sensation of the hour — emphatic- 


MY OWK Sm. 


191 


ally of the hour — for the little eddy of success that a new 
book creates in these latter days is short-lived. Another 
literary sensation soon appears^ and the former one is for- 
gotten.. It is like the waves — one comes riding proudly in, 
breaks, and is succeeded by another. 

But I had my wave. My book took hold of public at- 
tention for its brief hour. It was praised, abused, mis- 
understood. The best art that was in it was almost 
ignored, the worst was cried up extravagantly as something 
novel and original. The book was pronounced startling, 
lurid, surcharged with emotion — written by one who had 
tasted of the fruit of the knowledge of good and evil. It 
was also called vivid, true, and even great. I was de- 
scribed in the newspapers — my face, my dress; the story 
of my life was given — wildly wide of the truth. Society — 
eager to catch any floating straw of sensation to tickle the 
Uase interest of its party goers — society sent me its cards. 
I accepted the invitations. I was ready to plunge into any 
current that might assuage the burning of my heart. 

I went first under the wing of the wife of my publisher. 
Albert went with me. Afterward he, too, was sought 
after, and he accompanied me wherever I went. His gift 
of music, his singular beauty and graceful fragility attract- 
ed attention. He became an object of much curiosity. 
We were believed to be engaged lovers. Albert showed 
his devotion to me with his usual child-like frankness. He 
turned from the flatteries of diamonded belles the moment 
I came near. When he had played with unusual sweet- 
ness, and applause hummed about him, his eyes sought me 
out, and my smile and nod were more to him than all the 
clapping of white hands. 

I had attended several of these receptions, and had not 
yet seen Gerald. The feeling of disappointment that came 
over me, after I had swept the room with my eyes and 
found he was not there, enlightened me as to the under- 
lying motive that had brought me to these assemblages. I 


192 


MY OWN SIN. 


had hoped to see Gerald — to see him and Elsie together. 
I could tell whether he loved her as he once loved me. 

At last my wish was granted. 

I was looking my best that night. I wore black gauze 
with my favorite flowers — the double scarlet pomegranate. 
My arms were bare, my neck and bosom gleamed through 
the thin, cloud-like fabric. I was sitting in a corner, be- 
hind some broad-leaved plants, talking to a well-known 
journalist, when Mr. and Mrs. Gerald Oldridge were an- 
nounced. 

The voice of my interlocutor became an unintelligible 
buzz, and the room with its lights and faces went round. 

When my vision cleared 1 saw the two standing and 
talking for a moment to the tall hostess. Beside her mass- 
ive figure the girl at Gerald’s side looked like a child. 
How small and dainty and lily-like! With her pale face, 
her large, limpid eyes, her gown of simple white lace 
bound with a soft, white sash about her waist, and some 
white flowers on her breast and in her hair, Elsie looked 
like a young novice waiting to kneel and have her bright 
hair shorn for the veil rather than like a woman — a wife. 
She was not pretty, no — the little, thin, pearl-white face 
had no claims to beauty; but even my grudging heart was 
forced to allow her the perfection of grace — a child-like 
unconsciousness. And how sweet her voice was — how 
sweet her smile! 

Jealous impulse prompted me to look first at her, then 
my eyes rested upon Gerald. His face bore traces of the 
trial he had been passing through. It was worn and pale. 
He did not see me at first. When at length he caught 
sight of me I was conscious of the sudden change in his 
face, though I was not looking at him. I was bending, 
with apparently absorbing interest, to listen to my com- 
panion. 

After that his eyes turned to me every moment when he 
fancied 1 would not see that he was looking at me. There 


MY OWK SIN. 


193 


was watchful jealousy in that look. He had heard the 
rumor that I was engaged to the boyish musician who 
always came with me. He saw Albert at my side — saw his 
manner^, always so openly devoted. It gave him pain. 1 
saw it. 

He loves me still,^^ I thought, and my spirits rose to 
feverish height. 

I was asked to sing. It was just after Elsie had sung in 
response to the pressing request of the overattentive host- 
ess. Her piece was a simple ballad, rendered in a sweet, 
reedy voice. I went to the piano, elated with the con- 
sciousness that I could mortify her by the contrast of my 
rich voice with hers. Albert played the accompaniment of 
the finely dramatic song I chose. Never had my voice 
been so full of power and passion. It was not a cultured 
voice, but it had the wild freedom and lonely longing of 
winds sweeping over the prairies of my native south-west. 
Sung by a dark -eyed young southerner who had just written 
a successful book, it brought a burst of applause. I 
looked at Elsie. She was joining in the applause, her eyes 
beaming with frank appreciation. 

She gave her bouquet of beautiful orchids to her hus- 
band, telling him to present it to me; I saw the act, and 
saw her bend to him with the whispered request, and I saw 
his look. He said something to her and quietly returned 
the fiowers to her hand. He had refused to give them to 
me, and he had not applauded my song. Well, but he 
had felt it. I knew that by his face. 

But Elsie^s superior nobleness shamed me for the motive 
that had made me sing. There was no mean envy in this 
girFs nature. She was good, that was her charm. I saw 
Gerald look at her tenderly. There had been dark, troubled 
passion in his eyes when they rested upon me. 

An hour later I was sitting with Albert in a window re- 
cess in the library that was now almost empty. Gerald 
came up and asked me to dance with him. His manner 


194 


MY OWK SIN. 


was abrupt, and there was a look of sternness and repressed 
passion in his face that almost startled me. 

“1 do not wish to dance/^ I said. 

Then walk with me — somewhere — let me speak to you 
alone. 

‘‘ I was thinking of going home. You will excuse me, 
please. 

1 can take no excuse/^ he answered. “ 1 must see 
you — speak to you. 

Albertis eyes were flashing. 

Must, sir. Your language is insulting. What right — 

‘^What right have you, impudent boy, to stay at her 
side continually. I have a right. She knows it; she will 
acknowledge it. I will proclaim it here — before every one 
— no matter what the consequences — . 

I rose quickly. 

‘‘ I will speak to you,^^ I said. Albert, it is necessary 
that I speak to this gentleman — on business. He is an old 
acquaintance.^^ 

As he led me away he repeated my last words, bitterly. 

“ Acquaintance! And you apologize to your new lover 
for speaking to me! It was for him you cast me off. Oh, 
Hilda! is this your constancy?^^ 

He was mad with jealousy. He took me into the con- 
servatory, and seating me in a spot sheltered from sight by 
palms and azaleas, he poured out a torrent of wild words — 
reproaches, entreaties, passionate love. I listened to it all, 
outwardly cold and controlled, although inwardly my 
whole being was in tumult. 

At last I said: 

You will then leave Elsie and come to me? You will 
come to me, no matter what the consequences, as you de- 
clared just now— though they be death to her and her 
child?^^ 

His features writhed with pain. For a moment he hesi- 


MY OWK SIN. 195 

tated; his head dropped upon his hands. Then he looked 
up. 

“ I — can not leave — her/^ he said; the words seeming 
to be forced through his white lips by a power he could not 
resist. Oh^ Hilda! you forced this cruel issue upon me. 
I can not surrender every particle of honorable and dutiful 
feeling; and yet I — love — you — I can not give you up. I 
can not see you smile upon other men. It maddens me. 
That young musician loves you — boy though you say he is 
— he loves you. You sulfer him to be with you all the 
time. You will come to love — 

Love?^^ I cried, starting to my feet. 1 hate the 
word. I will love no one; I will tear the feeling out of 
my heart. What is it you want me to do? To share your 
love with another? I would not share a throne with any 
other. And a heart — my husband^s heart — once all my 
own! No, Gerald, there is a gulf between us love can 
never pass. My hand .dug that gulf, you say. Let that 
be- granted. The mistake — the crime was mine. But it is 
done — it can not be undone — it can not be helped. It is 
better that we do not meet again. If we do meet, let the 
past be unremembered. Kecall it by no word, no look. 
Good-bye. 

I forcibly drew my hands from his clasp, my look from 
his agonized, burning eyes. I almost flew back to Albert. 

‘^Let us go,^^ I said. “ I long to be out in the cold 
night air. I do not care for such scenes as these. They 
bore me. We will not come again, soon.-^^ 

I was fearfully shaken. All the old feelings had rushed 
over me at Gerald ^s touch, at the look in his eyes, bent 
close to mine. He loved me still. I knew that now. 
Nothing kept him from me but his sense of duty to Elsie. 
Oh, why could she not die? 


196 


MY OWK SIK. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

It was four clock in the afternoon. I had been writ- 
ing all day on my new story, only stopping to eat the little 
lunch of bread and fruit and tea that Nell brought to me, 
saying, as she set down the tiny tray: 

The tea is nice, Hilda. I made it myself. 

She put a red flower from her geranium plant in the 
slender vase on my desk. She kept the little vase always 
supplied with a flower or a bit of greenery — something for 
Hilda^s thoughts to light upon, like a butterfly does, you 
know,^^ she said, in her quaint way. The child had a 
poet^s soul. 

It was four o^clock, and the afternoon was beautiful. 
It was late in October— the last week of that sumptuous 
month. The dreary spell of the Indian summer hung over 
the land. Tints of yellow and scarlet showed am^g the 
leaves of the vine that muffled the gray walls of the old 
building on which my study looked. 

Ip the front room Albert was playing — improvising, I 
knew, for the sweet, vaguely melancholy music voiced the 
charm of the sunshine and the sky — tender blue, with 
white, sleepy clouds on its breast. 

Presently the playing stopped; then came a quick tap on 
my door. 

Hilda, you have been shut up from me all day. 
Come, go out with me somewhere — to the park, shall it 
be? The park is lovely, and you haven^t been there in a 
week.^^ 

No, I had not been there in a week. Our new home was 
near Central Park, and I was accustomed to walk in it 
every day — sometimes with my mother and Nell, some- 
times with Albert, and more rarely alone. I did not now 
love solitude. I was afraid of being alone with my own 


MY OWK SIK. 


197 


thoughts. But I had shunned the park of late, for twice I 
had encountered Gerald there driving, with Elsie at his 
side, and, since that interview at the reception, my one 
prayer was never to see either of these again. 

To see him was only to feed a passion that I must starve 
out of my heart; to see her was to wake a feeling that ter- 
rified me — a bitter hate, a fierce desire to dash her froih 
the place — there at the side of my lover — my husband — 
though to do it should dash the life out of her white face 
forever. 

I dreaded to meet either her or Gerald. It unnerved 
me for hours afterward, and yet I had a constant, morbid 
longing to go where I might see them — myself unseen. It 
was only by the exercise of my will that I had kept away 
from the park so long. I could not resist the temptation 
to-day. 

Yes, we will go to the park,^^ I said to Albert. “ The 
changing trees are beautiful, I know;^^ and I went at once 
and put on my walking-hat and jacket. 

Where are mother and Nell?^^ I asked, as I rejoined 
him, drawing on my gloves. 

They went out a little while ago. We shall find them 
in the^ark, perhaps. 

The loveliness of that Indian summer afternoon — it is 
painted on my memory forever — its tints of frost-kissed 
leaves and mellow sunshine framing the dread and horror 
that made the day one never to be forgotten. 

We took our way at first along the winding paths that 
led among ro^s and trees, where we could hear the chirp 
of the sparrows in the red-berried bushes and the chatter 
of a friendly squirrel, looking down at us from a limb over- 
head. Then that unhealthy craving to see what I yet 
knew was. not good for me to see led me to say to Albert: 

Let us look at the drive a little while. I like to watch 
the horses. 

Perhaps it was something more than the morbid craving 


198 MY OWK SIl^. 

— perhaps it was some Heaven-sent impulse that drew me 
to the drive that day. I believe now that it was. I have 
been brought to feel sure that the Being who created us to 
carry out some hidden purpose mysteriously shapes our 
destinies and controls our slightest movements to that end. 

And it so happened that my steps were strongly drawn 
to the park drive that day — so strongly that I overruled 
Albertis desire to stay in the shaded foot- ways. 

We took our seats upon one of the rustic benches that 
are placed here under the trees that border the drive, and 
watched the various equipages and horseback parties that 
went by. 

We had been seated there but a few moments when I 
saw approaching a pretty open carriage, drawn by iron- 
gray horses — Gerald^s horses, I knew, at a glapce, but 
Gerald was not in the carriage. Elsie sat there alone. 
She was dressed entirely in black — a black hat with droop- 
ing plumes framing her lily face and making its fairness 
more striking. 

I looked at her eagerly, while the carriage came slowly 
up the drive. 

Ah, her paleness is not the sallowness of ill-health. 
The outlines of her face and figure are gathering fullness. 
She is growing strong and well. She will live 

1 said it bitterly to myself, and hate and cruelty surged 
up in my breast all in an instant. The next I took my 
eyes resolutely from that fair face and turned them upon 
the coachnian, who sat stiffly upright on the seat in front. 

What was there about the man that all at once made the 
blood stand still in my veins? 

He was simply the stereotyped New York coachman — a 
copy of his English prototype — in the regulation London 
rig — closely buttoned coat with cape and pulled-up collar, 
tall hat and gauntlet gloves. His face was clean shaven, 
his hair gray. He looked the respectable, middle-aged 


MY OWK SIK. 199 

coachman, that was all. There was only one slight irregu- 
larity — he wore glasses set in dark tortoise-shell rims. 

A puzzled sensation dazed me the instant my glance 
rested upon him. In the next breath I knew him. I 
caught a green flash from under the dark-rimmed glasses. 
The clean-shaven coachman was Erastus McKenna! 

Gould it be? I stared at him as the carriage passed. 
The face was almost unrecognizable. The thick, long 
beard had so hidden mouth and chin that their revealed 
outlines changed the entire look of the face. His figure, 
too, was altered. Padding inside the buttoned coat and 
the coachman^s stiff cape made him^ look greatly more 
massive and broad-shouldered — if indeed it was he. 

While I gazed at him in doubt, there came another flash 
from beneath the glasses. This time a flash of recognition 
— of mutual intelligence — of warning. He had seen my 
start and my stare of half -bewildered terror. 

That look was enough. I knew now I was not mis- 
taken. The coachman who was driving Elsie^s carriage 
was her ex-physician, though she did not dream of such a 
possibility. 

Why had he assumed this disguise? I knew at once. 1 
knew the instant I met his glance of stealthy warning that 
his presence there meant death — death to the child-woman 
reclining against the cushions behind him, her lace mantle 
gathered shyly, about her to hide the hint of maternity 
scarcely perceptible in her slender shape. It meant death 
to her and her unborn child — Gerald’s child. 

I held my breath with horror as the carriage rolled 
slowly by, the coachman looking straight at his horses 
after that one significant, furtive flash directed at me. 

Hilda, whafc ails you?” 

I passed my hand across my dazed brow. 

“ Why did you jump and looked so frightened?” 

Oh!” I laughed at last, it was a caterpillar. Didn't 
you see it drop on my arm from the tree?” 






200 MY OWN SIN. 

Was that all?^^ He looked at me keenly, but he was 
as unsuspecting as an infant. I didn't think you were 
afraid of anything, Hilda? Shall we go on now to the lake 
and take a little row on the water?" 

Not yet. We will sit here awhile longer, or we will 
walk on. I want to see if any one I know is out driving 
to-day. " 

He said something about the dust of the boulevard, but 
I did not heed. I walked on up the drive, keeping close 
to the grass-bordered edge, my eyes fixed upon the carriage 
until it disappeared around a curve of the boulevard. 

Something was going to happen — something horrible. 
McKenna would never let his purposed victim leave the 
park alive. 

As I walked there in the sunshine of that fair day a bat- 
tle raged in my soul. The angel and the demon within me 
fought against each other. The one cried out to me to 
give warning of the crime I felt sure was about to be com- 
mitted. I could do it easily. 

A mounted policeman was coming toward me. I looked 
at him so intently that he checked his horse and gave me a 
glance of respectful inquiry. Should I speak to him? 
Should I tell him to wheel his horse and ride ahead — ride 
fast, for a life's sake, and overtake the carriage he had 
passed a moment ago — the carriage with the iron-gray 
horses and the gray-haired, spectacled coachman — overtake 
it and arrest that coachman? He was in disguise. He 
meant mischief to the woman inside the carriage. 

This is what I could say. The policeman might doubt 
my sanity. He might take me for one of the class of 
cranks and sensationalists he often encountered; but he 
would pay heed to my warning. He would ride back from 
curiosity, if nothing else, and keep an eye on the carriage 
and its driver. 

But I did not speak. The Spirit of Darkness stified the 
words in my throat. 


MY OWK SIM. 


201 


What business is it of yours?^^ it said. That woman 
has stolen the place in your husband^s heart and home that 
belongs to you. She stands between you and the love that 
is your life. If Pate is about to strike her down, let it. It 
is not your hand that deals the blow. And you do not 
even know that McKenna me^ns immediate mischief. He 
may have put on this disguise in order to approach his 
former patient and reinstate himself in her favor. 

I did not believe this suggestion, yet I allowed it to in- 
fluence me. I said, doggedly, to the better impulse: 

I will not expose myself to ridicule by acting on a 
mere suspicion. I need not exhibit such zeal on behalf of 
my happy rival. 

All this while I was walking on and on, with rapid 
steps, and Albert, wondering at my strange mood and my 
burning eyes, walked beside me. 

And as I walked I listened, with ears keenly attent. I 
listened for what? A woman '’s scream — some sound that 
should announce the tragedy I felt was about to take place. 

I heard nothing — nothing but the call of the cat-bird in 
the bushes, the plaintive note of a grasshopper in the yel- 
lowing grasses, the measured roll of carriage-wheels in the 
distance. 

A red leaf dropped on my arm from a limb overhead. 
I started; it seemed a splash of blood. 

A mist, as of blood, swam before my eyes. A tremor 
seized me. I gripped Albertis hand with a force that 
made him start. 

It has come — it has come!^^ I cried out. 

What has come?^^ he asked, in amazement. Hilda, 
what is the matter? Tell me. Are you — 

His question broke short, for now he, too, heard what 
had come to my more intent senses through instant spirit- 
telegraphy — a commotion ahead, an outcry of voices, a 
scream — shrill, piercing, full of terror — the thunder of fly- 
ing hoofs^ the rattle and whir of wheels spinning over the 


302 


MY OWK SIN. 


ground with fearful velocity; then whirling into sight came 
a pair of maddened horses uncontrolled by hand or rein^ a 
carriage that reeled from side to side through the speed 
that propelled it, with no driver on the coachman^s seat, 
no occupant — yes, oh, yes! there on the carriage floor was 
a mass of black drapery, a death-white face — and again 
that scream— shrill, appealing, like the cry of a terrified 
child — rang out above the din of trampling hoofs and 
whirling wheels. 

Behind, riding to the rescue, was a mounted policeman. 
The noise of his approach only served still more to terrify 
the runaway horses and accelerate their speed. 

On they rushed. Just before they reached where we 
stood, transfixed with horror, a horseman, coming from 
the opposite direction, dashed up in front of them, crying: 

They faltered an instant only, then they swerved from 
their straight course, wheeled swift as thought, spinning 
the carriage round like a top, and made an oblique dash 
for the woods. 

A cry of horror burst from Albert. I remembered in a 
flash that just ahead of where those blindly rushing beasts 
would enter the woods there was a rocky descent of several 
feet. Crash of the carriage and certain death of its occu- 
pant would follow the plunge down that rocky declivity. 

An inspiration came to me — sudden and quick as though 
hurled by the hand of a god. I leaped forward as the 
horses were dashing past me and caught the nearer one by 
the bridle with both hands, and clung to my hold as the 
desperate beasts plunged on, dragging me with them — 
still swung and clung, while the horse reared upright, 
nearly tearing my arms from their sockets, while he 
plunged down, striking his hoof against my knee with a 
force that seemed to crush the bone — plunging forward 
again — he and his mate — dragging me again, still clinging 


MT OWK SIIT. 203 

to the bridle, though now I felt as though strength and 
sense were nearly gone. 

But help was at hand. I had checked the furious speed 
of the horses; the mounted policeman dashed up and seized 
the bridle of the off -horse. At the same instant Albert 
was at my side. He loosed my clinched fingers from their 
clinging hold, and surrendering the bridle to another 
policeman, turned to me. The horses were stopped. 
Trembling and snorting, with foaming nostrils, they stood, 
held by the strong arms of the officers. 

There was a little crowd about the carriage. I looked 
for the black dress and the white face, but my vision was 
suddenly blurred. 

Hilda are you hurt?^^ cried Albert, as 1 staggered into 
his arms. 

Is she hurt?^^ I faintly uttered, when at last I could 
speak. 

No, 1 think not. They have helped her out — her and 
the child. 

The child?^" 

He looked around. He uttered a cry of wild surprise. 

Oh, Hilda, it is Nell! It is our Nell! You have saved 
little Nell!^^ 

1 looked up. 1 saw in the group around the carriage 
Elsie, supported by a man; and in the arms of another 
man I saw a child — a child in a white frock, with di- 
sheveled golden hair, who stretched out her arms to me, 
laughing and crying at once. 

‘\Nell!^" I cried. My God! little Nell!^^ 

Oh, I^m not hurt, Hilda! The lady wouldn^t let me 
jump out; she held me down fast in the botton; of the 
carriage. 

And she saved you by holding you down, little miss,^^ 
said the policeman. If you had jumped out you^d have 
been a goner. 

It was all I heard. A roar as of falling waters filled my 


204: 


MY OWN SIN. 


ears — a voice that seemed crying out: You had nearly 
been your ‘sister^s murderer — then all was silence and 
darkness. 

When I came to I lay on the grass of the park, near the 
scene of the catastrophe, my head in my mother^ s lap. 
Albert was chafing one of my hands, Elsie held the other. 
She was kneeling by me, her face bent over me, full of 
anxiety. I heard her say, just as I came to my senses: 

Oh, she must be hurt! Bring a doctor — quick — some 
one!’" 

I opened my eyes. 

I am not hurt,"" I said; it is only the reaction."" 

I sat up. I saw Nell"s little, pale face close to me. I 
drew her into my arms, and broke into a bit of remorseful, 
thankful weeping, my face buried in her yellow curls. 

Oh, how near I had come to being the slayer of this 
being whom I loved with a sister"s fondness and a mother’s 
devotion! What a punishment for my sin had God merci- 
fully averted from me! 

Some one was taking my hand — was covering it with 
kisses. It was Elsie. 

Brave one — noble one!"" she was murmuring amid her 
tears. How can I thank you?"" 

1 lifted my head. 

Never thank me/’ 1 said. do not deserve it. 1 
thank you — oh! 1 thank you upon my knees for saving my 
little sister. You held her fast in your arms — your frail 
arms — you kept her from jumping out and being killed."" 

“ It was as little as I could do, when I had taken her in 
the carriage. The coachman did not want me to take her 
in, but I insisted. She looked so charming, standing be- 
side her mother under the trees, as we passed, I wanted to 
give her a nice ride. Poor little one — it came near being 
her last ride as well as mine!"" 

‘‘But "t wasn’t your fault,” said Nell, quickly. “The 
horses looked so gentle; they trotted on so nice, until the 


MY OWK SIK. 


205 


coachman dropped his whip and jumped down to get it, 
and before he could get up again the horses reared right 
upland then they ran — oh, how they ran! What made 
them mad so suddenly, I wonder 

There^s a fresh bleeding wound in the flank of one of 
them, and a streak of blood on the other one^s withers, 
said a policeman, coming up and lifting his hat to Elsie. 
“ Can you tell how that came, ma^am? I can^t see how 
he got hurt when he was running, unless he snagged him- 
self against a limb of the tree there. 

That must have been the way he received the wound. 
He had no hurt before. And the horses were both gentle 
— spirited, but easily controlled. 

‘‘ That fool-driver dropped the reins when he got down. 
He must have been drunk. He ought to be took up; but 
he^s made off with himself, and canH be found. Was he 
regTar in your service, ma^am?^^ 

said Elsie. We have only, had him since yes- 
terday. Our coachman was taken ill quite suddenly. 
This man was known to him. He had good recommenda- 
tions besides. 

I understood it all. McKenna in his disguise had made 
a friend of the coachman. He had given him some drug 
in wine or beer to make him sick, and had taken his place 
for the time that he might carry out his purpose of mur- 
dering Elsie — a purpose so nearly achieved. 

The dropped whip was a pretext to get down. Then he 
had quickly inflicted the wound in the flank of the horse 
near him, and a slighter one upon the other horse with 
some sharp-pointed instrument set probably in the end of 
the whip-handle, knowing that the animals, wild with pain 
and fright, would run away. 

I had known he would attempt some such thing when I 
recognized him on the carriage-box — when I caught that 
stealthy, cruel eye — the look of a tiger that is creeping on 
its prey. 


206 


MY OWM SIN. 


I had known it, yet I had given no warning. I had con- 
sented to the murder of that innocent woman and her un- 
born child. Oh! I deserved the punishment that had so 
nearly come upon me. 

Remorse tore my heart. All hate and malignant im- 
pulse against Elsie was gone. She had saved my little sis- 
ter^s hfe by her courage — the life iny own wickedness had 
brought into danger. 

Yet 1 could not bear that she should press my hand^ be- 
tween hers and look at me with so much gratitude, and I 
could not accept her oJSer — her entreaty to let her drive us 
home in the carriage that had been brought for her. 

We live near; we have but a little way to walk, and I 
am quite recovered,''-^ I told her. 

She had allowed no word to be sent to Gerald or her 
aunt. 

My husband is down-town at his office. There is no 
need to alarm hipa, and no need to trouble my aunt. I 
feel perfectly well — only a little excited, she said. 

In spite of her fragility she had strong nerves and won- 
derful self-control. It was this that had enabled her to 
baffle McKenna when she was his patient, and to resist his 
efforts to get her under the influence of his will. 

Before entering the carriage, she again took my hand in 
hers. 

Since you will not let me take you home,^^ she said, 
at least give me your address, that I may come to see 
you and bring my husband. He will be hurt if you don^t. 
He will want to thank you with his own lips for what you 
have done for me.^"' 

I have done nothing to deserve your thanks. Think 
no more about it, dear lady. You are kind to want to 
come to see me, but I am too busy to see any one.^^ 

‘‘ Oh, I know you are busy — busy with that magic pen 
of yours. I have read your book; I got it the day after 1 
saw you at Mrs. Guernsey's — that night when you sung so 


MY OWK SIN. 



sweetly. I felt drawn to you then; I told my husband so. 
And you can not come to see me, or let me come to see 
you?^" 

“ Ifot now; it is impossible. 1 thank you with all my 
heart. 

It was all I could say. She looked at me wistfully — a 
little hurt, I knew. Then she shook hands with my 
mother, and stooped and embraced Nell, slipping a ring 
on her finger that she took from her watch-chain. 

She kissed her hand to us with her sweet, infantile smile 
as she was driven away in the carriage, accompanied by a 
gentleman she knew, who had insisted on seeing her safe at 
home — fearing, as he told my mother, that she might feel 
the bad effects of the shock as soon as her excitement had 
subsided. I felt there was indeed danger of this. 

The sun had set; the after-glow bathed the greenery of 
the park in pale, golden light. We walked slowly home — 
slowly, for now I felt physically the effect of the strain and 
exertion, as well as of the bruise I had received, and 1 felt 
the effect on my spirits of the terrible trial 1 had passed 
through. 

What was her name, Hilda — the name of that sweet 
woman my mother asked. She gave you her card.^"^. 

‘^1 have dropped it,""^ I answered. 

I think it was Alrich or Oldridge,’’^ said Albert. 

“It is very likely,^^ 1 said. “ There are several fami- 
lies of both those names in New York. 


CHAPTER XXV. 

“ Look, there comes Doctor. McKenna cried Nell. 

We were near the Fifth Avenue entrance of the park. 
She was holding my hand as I walked on slowly, leaning 
upon Albertis arm. 

I looked up at once. 


208 


MY OWN SIN. 


‘^The child is mistaken; McKenna would not dare/^ 
was my thought. 

But it was he. There he sat in his plain, black buggy, 
driving his large, black horse. He was dressed as usual in 
dead black, and there was his beard, his thick, but com- 
pact mustache, with the metallic shine that betrayed it 
was dyed, coiling snake-like about his mouth and hiding 
its expression. 

Had 1 been mistaken? Had I wrongfully accused this 
man of attempting the double murder that had so nearly 
been committed? It must be so, yet I could have sworn 
to . the identity of the eyes. And that look of mutual 
understanding mixed with warning — that look the dis- 
guised coachman had given me as he passed and that 1 had 
shuddered to receive, feeling myself a partner in his crime 
— could I have imagined that look? No; 1 had not been 
mistaken. 

I knew 1 had not an instant later. McKenna saw us. 
As his eyes fell upon us he started so violently that the 
reins dropped from his hands. He did not know it; he was 
staring at little Nell. The child noticed it and cried out 
to him. 

“ What makes you look at me so hard. Doctor McKen- 
na? Did you hear I was hurt? No, 1 wasnT. The lady 
held me fast and wouldnT let me jump out, and Hilda 
stopped the horses. 

Hilda stopped the horses!^^ 

What a look he flashed upon me! 1 felt stunned — as if 
struck by lightning. It was a glare of rage and disap- 
pointment. But it passed as quickly. The man had a 
wonderful power of self-control. He bowed to me, smiling 
— if that half-scornful, half -malignant gleam of the yellow 
teeth could be called a smile. 

"‘Hilda is quite a heroine, he said. “I suppose the 
policemen and the park habitues all called her brave as 


MY 0W2^ SIN. 209 

well as fair, and the carriage dame called her my preserver 
and offered to introduce her into society 

Nell did not understand the sarcasm. 

She offered to take Hilda home in her carriage/^ she 
said, but Hilda wouldn^t go, though she can hardly 
walk.^^ 

Is she hurt?^^ he asked, his tone suddenly changing. 
He looked at me anxiously. ‘^You are pale, he said. 

Won^t you get in the buggy and let me drive you home?^^ 

1 refused so coldly that my good mother was hurt at 
what she thought was an ungrateful return for Dr. Mc- 
Kenna^s kindness. To palliate my rudeness she said: 

If you had given that invitation to me. Doctor Mc- 
Kenna, I would have accepted it gladly. I feel dreadfully 
shaken. 

‘‘ I am glad some one of this family appreciates my at- 
tempts to be friendly,^^ he said, as he bent from his seat 
and helped my mother to a place in the buggy. 

If she had known that she was seated beside a man 
who, until a moment ago, had believed himself to be the 
slayer of her little child! But she did not know — no one 
knew or suspected. -How many crimes as well as woes go 
on in this world beneath the surface? As many perhaps as 
come to the light. 

When we reached home we found my mother and Dr. 
McKenna standing on the entrance porch waiting for us. 
A boy held the bridle of the horse. My mother asked Dr. 
McKenna to come in and take tea with us. He declined, 
but added: 

I will just say a word to Hilda upon business — a pri- 
vate word — about her book. 

They went upstairs, and we were left standing upon the 
porch together. I looked at him. I could detect now 
that the mustache and beard he wore to-day were false. 
He had had them made as much like his own as possible 


310 




MY OWIT SIM. 

before he had shaved to carry out his disguise. The sham 
was not hard to detect when one looked at him closely. 

He looked at me without speaking. His eyes were more 
than ever like two burning baleful intelligences. 

So it is to you I owe the frustration ' of my scheme?^ ^ 
he said at last. 

It is to me, or to some directing power acting through 
me that you owe the fact that you are not the murderer of 
two innocent beings/^ I answered. 

Spare me any moral reflections/^ he cried, with angry 
scorn. They come rather ill from you. Can you deny 
that you wished for the death of that woman — your rival — 
that you longed for it — craved it as the one boon you had 
to ask of Fate?^^ 

Alas! I could not deny it. 

You had not courage enough to make your wish a 
truth — and 1 had,^^ he went on; therefore I am a thing 
to excite your horror. You frustrated my plan — why? I 
thought at first it was because of the child, but your mother 
tells me you did not know that Nell was inside the car- 
riage. You acted then upon an impulse born of the old 
superstitious ideas that were instilled into you in child- 
hood. You could not rise above them — even when you 
knew that you were saving her life — for him. If you had 
kept out of the park, all would have been well. It was a 
wretched fatality— the ill-luck that has hounded me all my 
life. Do you think I shall give up my purpose because of 
this? You shall see. All things come to those who wait 
and work. I will no longer count upon your sympathy 
or co-operation. Only when I have accomplished this, 
my life-purpose — when fame and riches are mine — only then 
will 1 come to Hilda Monteagle and ask her to share my 
success. Then Hilda shall be mine — mine — her fair body 
and fairer soul. That shall be my revenge for her frustra- 
tion of my plan to-day. I will conquer her will and her 
dislike. I will make her mine in spite of herself. I can 


MY owiq^ sm. 211 

do it then, for I will be free. Now my unfinished purpose 
keeps me its slave. Till then, Hilda, good-bye. 

He laid his long, clammy fingers on my wrist as he said 
the last words. Suddenly his fingers grasped my arm like 
a vise. His eyes fiashed. 

Destiny shall be accomplished,^^ he said, in a deep, 
intense whisper. Erast us McKenna shall be crowned as 
the greatest discoverer the world has ever known, and 
Hilda Monteagle^s lips — Hilda Monteagle^s soul — shall be 
given to him as the greatest of his rewards. 

He loosed my arm and darted away. 

The man was mad. I had suspected it always. I be- 
lieved it now. No sane man^s eyes ever had that wild 
gleam. No sane man would pursue a purpose through 
scheming and crime in that monomaniacal way. He was 
mad — a one-ideaed crank, capable of appearing the quiet- 
est, the most harmless of beings. All the more dangerous 
because of this. 

What would he do next? He would not give up his 
purpose. I had just heard him declare that he would 
never give it up. He would make an attempt in some 
other way to bring about the death of the woman whose 
money would then fall into his clutch. I knew this — knew 
he would pursue this object with the cunning and persist- 
ence of a monomaniac. Then did it not become my 
bounden duty to warn his intended victim? 

I had uttered no word of warning — no intimation of foul 
play — after the accident to-day. I had no proof, it is true, 
but this was not the cause of my silence. My lips were 
sealed because of a feeling of guilt — a sense that I was in 
some degree an accomplice of McKenna. He had con- 
fided his criminal purpose to me, and I had kept his secret. 
I felt a horror of myself for having done this. I had been 
punished for it to-day. If my little- sister had been lying 
crushed and lifeless in her shroud to-night, I would have 
felt that her blood was upon my head. 


MY OWK SIM. 



212 

Clearly my duty was to warn Elsie of the danger she was 
in from Dr. McKenna. 

This was borne in upon me every hour of the week that 
followed. Yet I delayed doing it. I said to myself, He 
will make no fresh attempt yet awhile, for fear of exciting 
suspicion. 

I dreaded to speak, lest Dr. McKenna shojild retaliate 
by telling my own and Gerald^s secret — a secret I now 
prayed would never be known. For now its betrayal could 
bring nothing to me but shameful publicity of my sin. It 
could not give me Gerald. He was lost to me forever. 

It was a week of feverish unrest and indecision to me. 
At length, on the afternoon of the last day of the week, I 
was moved beyond my power to resist — moved to go at 
once and warn Elsie of her enemy. But first, I said to 
myself, I will see Dr. McKenna. I will tell him what I 
am about to do. The instinct of honor makes it hard for 
me to strike a blow at another in the dark, though that 
other is a would-be murderer. I will tell him that I am go- 
ing to put Elsie on her guard against him. It may be that 
when he sees I am determined to do this he will give up 
his purpose and leave the city. It would be better if it 
could be managed this way; then I might at once save 
Elsie and preserve my own secret. 

I dressed hurriedly, and went out. I found my way 
once more to that gloomy house on Beekman Place. I 
rang the bell. The old black woman came to the door. 
She opened it a little way and thrust her head through the 
aperture. 

Oh, it^s you!^^ she -said. Doctor McKenna has gone 
out.^" 

Are you sure he has gone out?^^ I askM, greatly dis- 
appointed. 

In course I^m sure. He went out half an hour ago.^^ 

Then ITl come in and wait until he gets back. 

She demurred. She had been told to admit nobody. 


MY OWK SIK. 213 

Nobody^ doesn^t mean me/^ I said. ‘^You know 
me, and know that he is a constant visitor to our family. 
We have his ward, Albert, with us. You^ll let me go in 
and wait, 1 know.^^ 

I enforced my plea by slipping a dollar into her fat,, 
black palm. She opened the door and admitted me into 
the doctor^s study. 1 sat down in his big easy-chair before 
his desk to wait his coming. 

At my feet was his waste-basket — a unique receptacle 
woven of red and blue withes by the Canadian Indians. It 
was crammed full of papers. 

As the moments went by and no doctor appeared, I grew 
restless and fidgety. My foot tipped over the basket and 
spilled out some of its contents. I hastily righted it, and 
was putting the papers back in place, when my eye caught 
a name upon the torn scraps. 

My dear Mrs. Oldridge,^^ I read on the transversely 
torn fragments. 

The writing looked a little familiar, but if it was written 
by Dr. McKenna the hand had been disguised and made to 
imitate a woman^s. 

I knew his skill with the pen. At once I suspected an- 
other plot. What was it he had written Mrs. Oldridge in 
that disguised hand? This scrap was probably a fragment 
of a sheet upon which he had been practicing to get the 
handwriting or the style to his notion. 

I got down upon my knees before the basket, and hur- 
riedly searched for the other fragments of the torn letter. 
I found a handful — all, iMeed, but one piece — a little tri- 
angular bit. I searched through the mass of papers for that 
in vain. 

But I had enough to give me an understanding of the 
purport of this letter. I put the pieces together and read : 

“My dear Mrs. Oldridge,— I know how glad you 
are to help one of your less fortunate sisters, so I do not 


214 


MY OWK SIK. 


hesitate to tell you of a case of pitiful need that our society 
has been informed of. The woman is refined and deserv- 
ing. Ill-health and widowhood have brought her and her 
children to a fearful strait, but she is proud, and we must 
help her without wounding her self-respect. You are just 
the ^ dainty Ariel ^ who can do this ^ spiriting gently. ^ So 
I beg you will meet me at Mrs. Lawrence^s lodgings, 

No. fourth floor. East 18th Street, to-morrow at four 

o^clock. I would call around for you, but I am obliged to 
go to Brooklyn early to-morrow morning to see a sick 
friend. Will return by Third Avenue Elevated Eoad, and 
get off at 18th Street Station. 

“ Yours lovingly, 

‘^KateO. 

I took in the devilish import of this letter the instant I 
mastered its contents. McKenna had written it himself, 
of course — written it in the name of a lady well known for 
her active charity — a leading spirit of some benevolent 
society that Elsie also belonged to. It was easy for Mc- 
Kenna to find this out, and to possess himself of a scrap of 
this lady^s writing. 

He had forged this letter — as a decoy — to bring Elsie to 
that lodging-house, where, no doubt, some pitfall was wait- 
ing for her — something that meant death. He had inter- 
polated the clause about going to Brooklyn early next 
morning to prevent Elsie from writing to Mrs. Bond or 
calling for her in her carriage. 

The appointment was for four o^clock. I looked at my 
watch. It was a quarter past three. There was no time 
to be lost — not a second. I was on my feet at once and 
out of the house. I hurried to the corner — there was no 
car in sight. A car in this quarter of the city is an inci- 
dent. I could not wait. 1 walked on and on, hoping to 
see a cab that I might hire. None were to be seen. At 
last I grew desperate. A coupe drawn by two strong 


MT OWK SIIT. 


315 


horses was approaching. It was driven by a negro, and a 
man with a refined face sat inside. 1 stepped quickly to 
the middle of the street, and made an imperative gesture to 
the driver. He drew up involuntarily; and then going to 
the side of the coupe, I made my appeal: 

Sir, pardon me. You are a gentleman, I feel sure. I 
must get to East Eighteenth Street in thirty minutes. It 
is a matter of great importance- — of life or death. I can 
not find a carriage. May I have the use of this?^^ 

My white, agitated face must have been more eloquent 
than the words I almost panted .out, for the man said 

Certainly, and jumped out at once. He helped me 
into the coupe, and said to the driver: 

Tom, take this lady where she wants to go. Let the 
horses out — she^s in a hurry. 1^11 wait for you here. 

Tom did let the horses out, and to good purpose. Never 
had I been whirled through the streets of New York at 
such a dizzy speed. 

Eighteenth Street was reached at length. We had been 
delayed at the last crossing. My watch pointed to five 
minutes past four. I looked down the street — a vista of 
brick and mortar. A carriage stood before the door of 
one of the tall, dingy buildings. Was it Elsie^'s? The 
horses were not the slender, spirited iron-grays that had 
run away with her a week ago. They were bays — fat and 
sleek. Ah! Mrs. Horace Oldridge^s horses. I knew them 
now when we had come nearer. I recognized the carriage 
as hers ' also. Elsie was not in , it. A young woman sat 
there alone on the front seat — a servant from her look and 
dress. Elsie^s maid,vno doubt. Where was Elsie? Had 
she not come at all? Had she gone into the house — and 
perhaps already fallen into McKenna^s trap? Was I too 
late after all? 

No; I was not too late. As the carriage stopped before 
the house I saw a woman standing on the stoop in the act 
of ringing the bell. The slender, graceful shape was 

, 4 




216 MY OWK SIM. 

Elsie^s. I threw a fee to the driver and jumped from the 
carriage. I went up to Elsie. 

‘‘ Pardon me,^^ I said, I must beg you not to enter 
' that house. Harm will come to. you if you do. 

She turned around and looked at me in surprise. Then 
suddenly she said: 

Oh, it is Miss Monteagle! You are very kind, but I 
don^t think it will hurt me to go up the stairs. I feel quite 
strong. And I have an appointment to meet a friend 
here, in the room of a Mrs. Lawrence. We are going to 
try to help her a little. Have you come on the same 
errand. Miss Monteagle?^^ 

No; there is probably no such case of distress. Mrs. 
Bond did not write that letter. 

Did not write the letter I received?^ ^ 

‘‘No; it was a forgery. It was a decoy to bring you 
here — to your hurt. It was written by the same man who 
in disguise cut your horses and made them run away — your 
enemy. 

“ Miss Monteagle!^’ 

She turned so pale I thought she was going to faint. 
But no; this girl, frail as she looked, had more nerve and 
more power of endurance than almost any woman I ever 
knew. 

“ I did not know I had an enemy in the world, she 
said, recovering herself and trying to smile. “ Who can it 
be? Whom have 1 injured?^"' 

“ I will tell you, because you must be put upon your 
guard against him. Measures must be taken to prevent his 
injuring you. It is your former friend and physician. It 
is Doctor McKenna. 

“Doctor McKenna?^^ she repeated, a look of distress 
overspreading her face. “I never meant to injure him. 
I could not like him; I could not trust him altogether, 
though I tried to. He was so learned, and he was so kind 
and attentive. But I told my aunt how strangely his treat- 


MY OWN SIN. 


217 


ment affected me, and she would not let me see him again. 
I know he was disappointed. He did not want me to come 
to New York, and he would accompany me. But he was 
well paid — indeed he was — and I wrote to him, and sent 
him a present besides. And he is so revengeful as this? 
He tries to injure me — to kill me! Oh, Miss Monteagle, 
are you not mistaken? 

I am not mistaken. It was he in disguise who drove 
you a week ago; it was he who wrote the letter. But it 
is not revenge he seeks — it is our money. Do you not know 
he was the husband of your aunt — her second husband — 
and that he is the guardian of your cousin Albert?/^ , 

She looked at me with wide, surprised eyes. 

No, I did not dream of such a thing. I never knew 
my aunt, or heard the name of the man she married last. 
He is Albertis guardian — 

And Albertis master, so far as money is concerned. If 
he should succeed in doing you a fatal harm now your fort- 
une would pass into his hands. You understand his motive 
now, do you not?^" 

^^Yes,^^ she faltered, looking white and sick. ^^But 
such wickedness is almost past belief. The man must be 
mad. I remember there was a strange look in his eyes. 

The man is undoubtedly mad. An asylum is the place 
for him. 

Poor unhappy being I’"" she said, gently. But what 
was the nature of the harm he intended to do me here in 
this house?^^ 

I do not know. I have thought that it might be — 
But before any conjecture could be spoken, the hall-door 
opened and two women came out — middle-aged women, 
shabbily dressed, and wrapped in those dingy, faded shawls 
that Irish women of the working-class love to pin under 
their chins. 

They passed us and stepped down to the sidewalk, stop- 
ping there to finish their talk before separating. 


m 


MY O^K SIK. 


‘‘ Mind you^ Maggie O^Leary/^ said the elder one^ 1 
don’t say as it is that disease the poor creeter’s got; but 1 
do say it looks moighty like it, and it smells moighty like 
it. It’s meself that ought to know the likes ol it when I 
see it, Maggie O’Leary.’^ 

That’s a mortal fact,” responded the other. “ Well, 
I sha’n’t be a-tattlin’ about it; it’s no business of mine,” 
she added, as she walked away. 

Acting on a sudden impulse, I stepped to the side of the 
first speaker, who had an honest face, though pitted with 
small-pox, and spoke to her as she was walking away. 

Will you kindly tell me what is the matter with the 
sick woman on the fourth floor back — what is the nature 
of her illness?” 

The woman shook her head. 

I’m no docthor,” she said, shortly. 

‘‘ But you are a woman, and you wouldn’t let another 
woman with kind intentions in her heart go into danger — 
perhaps death!” 

I looked at Elsie as I spoke. The woman, too, looked 
at her, and then she said: 

No;- that wouldn’t be right. Well, thin, I’ll tell you. 
I’m a’most willin’ to take me oath that the woman’s got 
the small-pox — a bad case of it. I’v^ had two childer to 
die with the dis’ase, and I’ve got the prints of its claws here 
in my face, and I ought to know it when I see it. But the 
docthor, he says it’s Frinch m’asles, and he chafged me to 
kape me mouth shut about small-pox.” 

What is the doctor’s name?” 

‘^Divil a name of him I ever heard. He’s a queer- 
lookin’ one, wi’ eyes as green as the sae. He saw the 
woman last week. She came over on the immigrant ship. 
She was failin’ bad whin she got off, and she toppled over 
on the bench at Castle Garden, and the docthor was down 
there somewheres and saw her, and he said it was jist a cold 
and faverishness, and he had her and her daughter brought 


MY OWK SIN. 


^ 219 

here. Then he told her she had the measles; and he called 
me a fool for sphakin^ a word about the small-pox^ and 
said I should kape away^ and kape me tongue in me head 
in the bargain^ or I^d be prosecuted. But I couldn^t kape 
me mouth shut and see yon dilicate little leddy go up to her 
death may be. 

You were rights and the lady thanks you/^ I said. 
Elsie bent her head with a murmur of thanks from her 
white lips. She was leaning against the wall of the little 
stoop, looking deadly pale. 

she gasped, as the woman walked away, ‘^how 
dreadful this is! I have such a horror of the small -pox. 
The very thought of having been exposed to it would kill 
me. And I have never been vaccinated. My friends 
thought it was a risk to be vaccinated when I was so feeble. 
Doctor McKenna knew this. Oh! Miss Monteagle, what 
you have saved me from! You have twice saved my life — 
and — another life bound up with mine.^^ 

She whispered the last words, as, blushing, trembling, 
she bent her head to my breast, her arm about my waist. 

Could I return her embrace? No, for in the next breath 
she said: 

You will, you must let me be your friend. Miss 
Monteagle. You must let my husband see you and thank 
you. He was so grateful to you for what you did before. 
I never saw him so agitated. He could not speak at first. 
Then he turned off and bowed his head on the mantel-piece 
and sobbed like a woman. When I said, ^ We must do 
something for her, we must give her some token of our 
gratitude and admiration,^ he answered, sadly, ^ No, she 
would take nothing, I know it, and she will not come to 
see us. ^ But you will, dear Miss Monteagle. You will let 
us be your friends?^-’ 

She lifted her pleading eyes — blue as wet forget-me-nots 
— to mine. The wife of Gerald Oldridge, my lover, my 
husband, was pleading for my friendship. I felt her charm. 


220 


MY OWN SIN. 


dark and. strong, with wild, hot blood throbbing in my 
veins, felt the charm of this white, gentle, tender creature, 
whose sweet mouth lifted itself to mine. 

I could not kiss her. I could not kiss the lips his mouth 
had pressed. A tide of bitterness surged up into my 
breast — a mocking voice seemed crying in my ears: 

You have saved those lips for him! Fool! you have 
burned your own house over your head.^^ 

I mastered the feeling with one strong effort. 1 said gently: 

You do not owe me any gratitude, dear lady — I could 
not call her by his name. Circumstances I can not ex- 
plain gave me -a knowledge of Doctor McKenna ^s feelings 
— a suspicion of his plans. I did what I could to save you 
from him. It was simply my duty — nothing more. So do 
not feel yourself under the least obligation to me. I thank 
you for your expression of friendly feeling, and I beg you 
will not think hard of me when I repeat to you that we 
can not be friends — that is, we can never hold intercourse 
as friends do. It is impossible. But you have my best 
wishes for your happiness — and your husband ^s. Eemem- 
ber my warning, and let me beg you to drive directly to 
your home, and leave it no more until that man is within 
the walls of an asylum. Good-bye. 

I uttered the last sentence of warning impressively, be- 
cause I had noticed a man on the opposite side of the street, 
who had walked to the corner and back again three times 
while we were standing on the stoop. He seemed to be 
furtively watching us. He was an old man, apparently, 
very gray, stooping, and dressed in a working-man^s clothes. 
But I had reason to know Dr. McKenna^s genius for dis- 
guises. 

It was he indeed. When at length Elsie had entered her 
carriage and driven away, looking back at me with her 
wistful, puzzled eyes, and I stood alone on the sidewalk 
for a moment, the old man crossed the street in a rather 
alert manner for an aged person, and under the cheap. 


MY OWI^ SIK. 


221 


faded old hat and the old-fashioned, silver-bowed spectacles 
1 caught the gleam of the intensely vital eyes I knew so well. 
How they glared upon me! 

He stepped to my side and hissed in my ear: 

I have to thank you again. You have twice foiled 
me. Now you shall pay for it! You have turned my love 
into hate. I would have given you riches, position, power 
to triumph over your wrongers. You have snatched the 
opportunity from me. You shall suffer for what you have 
cost me. To-morrow I shall take to a widely read paper, 
which delights to publish such things, a full account of a 
scandal in high life — a man who has committed bigamy — 
has married an heiress, with the knowledge and connivance 
of his former wife, whom he still keeps and supplies with 
the rich witch's money. I will make it so plain that every 
one who reads will be able to spot the man, the delicate 
heiress he has criminally married, and the other wife who 
aided and abetted his crime — the handsome young author 
of the latest sensation in fiction. I think my true story 
will surpass her fiction as a sensation. It will convulse 
society. It will ruin those who have ungratefully tried to 
ruin me.^^ 

While these dreadful words were sounding in my ears, and 
before I could frame one word of reply, the old man walked 
on, leaning on his stick and mumbling seemingly to him- 
self. 

What should I do? What could I do? Warn Gerald. 
That was the only thing I could think of. He was still at 
his office, perhaps, for it was not yet five o^clock. I has- 
tened to the Eighteenth Street elevated station, and took the 
down-train. I dreaded the interview, but it must be, and 
I nerved myself for it. Gerald might be able to do some- 
thing to avert this fatal publication. 

Bitter was my disappointment when, in answer to my in- 
quiry at the office, I was told that Mr, GeYald Oldridge had 
that day gone to Boston on business. 


222 


MY OWK SIK. 


There was nothing else to be done. I went home half 
crazed with anxiety. 

A sudden change had come over the earth. The Indian 
summer was dead. That was her shroud — that pall of 
cloud which overcast the sky. A wild wind had begun to 
blow. That night a fierce storm swept over the city. 

I watched it sleeplessly. I heard the trampling of the 
rain and the wild moaning of the winds. It reached its 
height about midnight; but an hour before that time I had 
had a vision — a vision that stamped itself upon my brain 
forever. 

It was no dream. I was in my dusky-shadowed room 
alone, lying on the lounge, but not asleep. Suddenly a 
touch fell upon my hand — a cold touch that stung to my 
veins like ice. I started up. There before me — there 
plain, in the flash of vivid lightning, stood Erastus Mc- 
Kenna. And in his temple there was a round red hole^ 
from which a stream of blood was trickling. 

The apparition passed as swiftly as the lightning that had 
illumined it. But I saw it plainly. It was no illusion. 
To my dying day I will believe that it was no figment of my 
brain, but that I saw the immaterial substance of that 
strange being I had known as Erastus McKenna. 

The morning would bring some news full of horror. I 
felt assured of this. I waited for day to break — for the 
coming of that earliest of city birds, the newspaper carrier. 
It came at last. The gray light broke over the wet, rain- 
sodden roofs. It broadened. The life and stir of the city 
awoke, and the janitor, wondering at my early advent, 
handed me the Herald, still damp from the press. 

1 turned to its column of latest city news. Ah! here it 
was— here was the paragraph I felt sure I should find: 

Shot Himself m the Head. 

Last night, at ten o^clock. Doctor Erastus McKenna, 
of No. — Beekman Place, committed suicide by shooting 


MY OWN SIN. 


223 

himself through the head. He was very eccentric in his 
habits, and it is supposed he was deranged. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

Theee years have passed since that dark life went out in 
storm. Three years that have brought a partial healing of 
heart-wounds — a measure of peace to throbbing pulses. 

Work has proved my staff of strength, as it has proved to 
so many others maimed in the conflict of life. I have been 
blessed with work that I loved. I am connected with a 
paper which circulates far and wide over this broad land, 
and even beyond its borders. I speak through it to half a 
million of live brains and beating hearts — thp brains and 
hearts of men, women, and children. And 1 speak — ^let 
me say humbly — words of truth and helpfulness. I know 
not how; it is that from this passionate, erratic being of 
mine can flow a stream that others find healing and 
strengthening. But so it is. Every day come letters writ- 
ten by stranger hands far away over the hills and rivers, 
saying that some published word of mine has comforted, or 
helped, or inspired the unknown writers. 

Always you sound the bugle-note of progress or the 
tender chord of sympathy, say these far-off friends, whose 
hands I shall never clasp, but whose God-speed is 
sweeter to me than I can tell. 

And so I have come to believe that I am an instrument 
played on by something higher than any power within me 
— a reed blown by a breath purer and nobler than any that 
stirs the chords of my own individual being. 

The thought is sweet. It wraps me sometimes in an at- 
mosphere of comfort. 

Sometimes. Alas! there are other times when my spirit 
is at war with itself — when old longings, old passions, old 
bitter feelings v/ake and tug at their chains. 


224 : 


MY OWK SIK. 


But power to silence them comes at length, and with 
each struggle this power grows stronger. I am not un- 
happy, though love is denied me. I will not trample on 
my harp of life though its sweetest string is broken. I 
have my work, my far-off friends, and my home, with its 
comfort and beauty and its three dearly loved ones — my 
mother, little Nell — fast growing into young maidenhood 
— and Albert. 

Albert’s love for me is peculiar. It is at once pure and 
impassioned. He never dreams of marriage. He feels 
that he has that fatal taint in his blood, and that it would 
not do for him to marry or know the sweetness of paternity. 
No; he must remain with that part of man’s destiny un- 
fulfilled. 

He knows, too, that I will never marry — that no child 
will ever call me mother, that 1 have poured out all the 
wine of passion upon one shrine, and now that chrism is 
forever empty. But he is content with what 1 can give, 
and so we two will go through life united by a bond sweeter 
and nearer than common friendship, purer and more restful 
than love. 

He is the gentlest and tenderest of God’s creatures, and 
he is strangely gifted, though his gifts are not for the garish 
light of the hall and the stage. Barely will he play in 
public. His lovely music — creations of his own ethereal 
fancy — are reserved for us at home. 

It is not often that I see Gerald Oldridge. Our paths lie 
apart. I shun the circles where I may meet him. I see 
his name often in the daily papers, and read of progressive 
enterprises or charitable schemes in which he takes a lead- 
er’s part. Once, unexpectedly, I listened to a speech that 
he delivered on a public occasion — a noble, stirring speech, 
unpremeditated and spontaneous. When applause was 
sounding around him he sought my eye and I saw him flush 
under its one glance of praise. 


MY OWK SIN". 


225 


He has sought me; he has written to me^ asking only 
to see me and talk with me alone a little while. I can not 
see him. I dare not. My only safety, my only peace is in 
keeping a gulf of silence and separation between us. 

But 1 do not — alas! I can not forget the past. I did not 
know how strong its spell was upon me until yesterday. It 
was a day of perfect June loveliness. The leaves of the 
trees in Madison Square just stirred with the breeze that 
came fresh from the bay. 1 stopped a moment uuder their 
shade to watch their graceful stirrings. A child’s soft coo 
made me look down and notice a beautiful baby in a dainty 
carriage canopied with blue silk and lace. The little face 
under the lace shadows was sweet as the fairest rose of 
June. 

Whose baby is it?” I asked of the pretty white-capped 
bonne, 

Mrs. Gerald Oldridge’s,” she answered, with a proud 
smile. 

Gerald’s child! A spasm seized my heart. I was fain to 
drop on the seat near by and put up my fan to hide my face 
from the girl. A wild tide of memory and regret swept 
over me. My Gerald’s child, and another woman its 
mother! 

For a moment I could not move or speak. Then the 
necessity of keeping up appearances came to me. 1 mur- 
mured something about having walked so fast that I felt 
faint, as I rose to go. I looked again at the child. Its 
fringed lids flew open; it looked up at me and smiled. 
Gerald’s eyes! Gerald’s smile! I bent down and kissed 
the baby lips once, and hurried home like a hunted thing. 

That night I could not bear to see any face, to hear any 
voice, even those I loved so well. 

I sat in my room alone, and the bitterness of desolation 
was mine. What was friendship, -what was fame? It was 
love my heart cried out for — love that I had tasted once 
8 






y^\ 


226 MY OWN SIN. 

and knew to be the sweetest draft that life holds to mortal 
lips. 

Oh, love, 1 have lost you; then let life go too, I cried, 
in rebellious agony. 

I went to my trunk and took from it a picture I had 
not looked at for more than a year; I hung over it, I 
kissed it passionately, and then 1 held it unflinchingly to 
the blaze of the gas and saw it curl and blacken in the 
flame. 

/ 


THE END 




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[When ordering by mail please order by numbers.] 


302 Abbot, The. Sequel to “ The 
Monastery.” By Sir Walter 


Scott 20 

788 Absentee, The. An Irish Story. 

By Maria Edgeworth 20 

829 Actor's Ward, The. By the au- 
thor of “A Fatal Dower”... 20 
36 Adam Bede. By George Eliot. 

First half 20 

36 Adam Bede. By George Eliot. 

Second half ^. 20 

888 Addie’s Husband; or, Through 
Clouds to Sunshine. By the 
author of ” Love or Lands?”. 10 
5 Admiral's Ward, The. By Mrs. 
Alexander 20 


127 Adrian Bright. B.y Mrs. Caddy 20 
.500 Adrian Vidal. By W. E. Norris 20 
477 Affinities. By Mrs. Campbell- 

Praed 10 

413 Afloat and Ashore. By J. Fen- 
imore Cooper 20 

128 Afternoon, and Other Sketch- 

es. By“Ouida” 10 

603 Agnes. By Mrs. Oliphant. First 

half 20 

603 Agnes. By Mrs. Oliphant. Sec- 
ond half 20 

218 Agnes Sorel. By G. P. R. James 20 
14 Airy Fairy Lilian. By ” The 
Duchess” 10 


274 Alice, Grand Duchess of Hesse, 
Princess of Great Britain and 
Ireland. Biographical Sketch 

and Letters 10 

636 Alice Lorraine. By R. D. Black- 

more. 1st half.’. 20 

636 Alice Ijorraine. By R. D. Black- 

more. 2d half 20 

650 Alice; or, The Mysteries. (A Se- 
quel to “ Ernest Maltravers.”) 

By Sir E. Bulwer Lytton 20 

462 Alice’s Adventures in Wonder- 
land. By Lewis Carroll. With 
forty - two illustrations by 

John Tenniel 20 

989 Allan Quatermain. By H. 

Rider Haggard 20 

97 All in a Garden Fair. By Wal- 
ter Besant 20 

484 Although He Was a Lord, and 
Other Tales. Mrs. Forrester. 10 
47 Altiora Peto. By Laurence OIL 

phant 20 

253 Amazon, The. CarlVosmaer 10 
447 American Notes. By Charles 

Dickens 20 

176 An April Day. By Philippa 

Prittie Jeplison 10 

1101 An Egyptian Princess. By 

George Ebers. Vol. 1 20 

1)0.1 An Egyptian Princess. By 
George Ebers, Vol, II 20 


2 




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403 An English Squire. By C. R. 

Coleridge 20 

SOT Ange. By Florence Marry at. . 20 
648 Angel of the Bells, The. By F. 

Du Boisgobey - .20 

889 An Inland Voyage. By Robert 

Louis Stevenson 10 

263 An Ishmaelite. By Miss M. E. 

Braddon 20 

154 Annan Water. By Robert Bu- 
chanan 20 

200 An Old Man’s Love. By An- 
thony Trollope 10 

750 An Old Story of Mj’’ Farming 
Days. Fritz Reuter. 1st half 20 
750 An Old Story of My Farming 
Days. Fritz Reuter. 2d half 20 
93 Anthony Tfollope’s Autobiog- 
raphy’' 20 

995 An Unnatural Bondage, and 
That Beautiful Lady. By 
Charlotte M. Braeme, author 

of “ Dora Thorne ” 20 

843 Archie Lovell. By Mrs. Annie 

Edwards 20 

395 Archipelago on Fire, The. By 

Jules Verne 10 

532 Arden Court. Barbara Graham 20 
1029 Armadale. By Wilkie Collins. 

1st half 20 

1029 Armadale. By Wilkie Collins. 

2d half 20 

247 Armourer’s Prentices, The. By 

Charlotte M. Yonge 10 

813 Army Society. Life in a Garri- 
son Town. By J. S. Winter.. 10 
990 Arnold’s Promise. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 


“ Dora Thorne ” 20 

224 Arundel Motto, The. By Mary 

Cecil Hay 20 

847 As Avon Flows. By Henry Scott 

Vince 20 

541 “ As it Fell Upon a Day,” by 
“The Duchess;” and Uncle 
Jack, by Walter Besant 10 


560 Asphodel. MissM. E. Braddon 20 
540 At a High Price. By E. Werner 20 
352 At Any Cost. By Edw. Garrett 10 
564 At Bay. By Mrs. Alexander.. 10 
528 At His Gates. By Mrs. Oliphant 20 
192 At the World’s Mercy. By F. 


Warden 10 

287 At War With Herself. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 
“ Dora Thorne ” 10 

923 At War With Herself. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme. (Large type 

edition) 20 

1135 Aunt Diana. By Rosa Nou- 

chette Carey 20 

737 Aunt Rachel.' By David Christie 

Murray 10 

760 Aurelian; or, Rome in the 
Third Century. By William < 

20 

74 Aurora Floyd. By Miss M. E. 
Braddon 20 


997 Australian Aunt, The By Mrs. 

Alexander 20 

730 Autobiography of Benjamin 
Franklin, The 10 


328 Babiole, the Pretty Milliner. By 
F. Du Boisgobey. 1st half. . . 20 
328 Babiole, the Pretty Milliner. By 

F. DWBoisgobey. 2d half 20 

241 Baby’s Grandmother, The. By 

L. B. Walford....- 10 

342 Baby, The. By “ The Duchess ” 10 

611 Babylon. By Cecil Power 20 

443 Bachelor of the Albany, The. . 10 
683 Bachelor Vicar of Newforth, 
The. By Mrs. J. Harcourt-Roe 20 
871 Bachelor’s Blunder, A. By W . 

E. Norris 20 

65 Back to the Old Home. By 

Mary Cecil Hay 10 

847 Bad to Beat. By Hawley Smart 10 
1113 Bailiff’s Maid, The. By E. Mar- 

litt 20 

834 Ballroom Repentance, A. By 

Mrs. Annie Edwards 20 

494 Barbara. By “The Duchess” 10 
551 Barbara Heathcote's Trial. By 

Rosa N. Carey. 1st half 20 

551 Barbara Heathcote’s Trial. By 

Rosa N. Carey. 2d half 20 

99 Barbara’s History. By Amelia 

B. Edwards ".. 20 

234 Barbara; or. Splendid Misery. 

By Miss M. E. Braddon 20 

91 Barnaby Rudge. By Charles 

Dickens. 1st half . .* 20 

91 Barnaby Rudge. By Charles 

Dickens. 2d half 20 

653 Barren Title, A. T. W. Speight 10 
731 Bayou Bride, The. By Mrs. 

Mary E. Bryan 20 

794 Beaton’s Bargain. By Mrs. Al- 
exander 20 

717 Beau Tancrede ; or, the Mar- 
riage Verdict. By Alexander 
Dumas 20 

1079 Beautiful Jim: of the Blank- 

shire Regiment. By John 

Strange Winter 20 

29 Beauty’s Daugltters. By “ The 

Duchess” 10 

86 Belinda. By Rhoda Broughton 20 
929 Belle of Lynn, The; or. The 
Miller’s Daughter. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 

“Dora Thorne” 20 

593 Berna Boyle. By Mi’S. J. H. 
Riddell '. 20 

1080 Bertha’s Secret. By F. Du 

Boisgobey. 1st half 20 

1080 Bertha’s 'Secret. By F. Du 

Boisgobey. 2d half 20 

581 Betrothed, The. (I Promessi 
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862 Betty’s Visions. By Rhoda 

Broughton 10 

620 Between the Heather and the 
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466 Between Two Loves. By Char- 
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“Dora Thorne” 

476 Between Two Sins; or, Married 
in Haste. By Charlotte M. 
Braeme, author of “Dora 
Thorne ” 

4S3 Betwixt My Love and Me. By 
the author of “A Golden Bar ” 
308 Beyond Pardon. By Charlotte 

M. Braeme 

257 Beyond Recall. By Adeline Ser- 

g-eant 

653 Birds of Prey. By Miss M. E. 

Braddon 

320 Bit of Human Nature, A. By 

David Christie Murray 

411 Bitter Atonement, A. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 

“ Dora Thorne ” 

430 Bitter Reckoning, A. By the au- 
thor of “ By Crooked Paths ” 
353 Black Dwarf, The. By Sir 

Walter Scott 

302 Blatchford Bequest, The. By 
Hugh Conway , author of 

“Called Back” 

106 Bleak House. By Charles Dick- 
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106 Bleak House. By Charles Dick- 
ens. 2d half 

968 Blossom and Fruit; or, Ma- 
dame’s Ward. By the author 

of “Wedded Hands” 

842 Blue-Stocking, A. By Mrs. An- 
nie Edwards 

492 Booties'* Baby ; oi*, Mignon. By 
J. S. Winter. Illustrated 

1121 Booties’ Children. By John 

Strange Winter^, 

935 Borderland. Jessie Fothergill. 
429 Boulderstone. By Wm. Sime. 
830 Bound by a Spell. Hugh Con- 
way, author of “ Called Back” 
394 Bravo, The. By J. Fenimore 

Cooper 

987 Brenda Yorke. By Mary Cecil 
Hay 

299 Bride from the Sea, A. By 

Charlotte M. Braeme, author 

of “ Dora Thorne ” 

362 Bride of Lammermoor, The. 

By Sir Walter Scott 

259 Bride of Monte- Cristo, The. A 
Sequel to “The Count of 
Monte-Cristo.” By Alexan- 
der Dumas 

1066 Bride of the Nile, The. By 
George Ebers. 1st half 

1056 Bride of the Nile, The. By 
George Ebers. 2d half 

300 Bridge of Love, A. By Char- 

lotte M. Braeme, author of 

“ Dora Thorne ” 

907 Bright Star of Life, The. By 

B. L. Far jeon 

642 Britta. By George Temple 


76 Broken Heart, A; or. Wife in 
Name Only. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne” 20 

54 Broken Wedding-Ring, A. By 
Charlotte M. Braeme, author 

of “ Dora Thorne ” 20 

898 Bulldog and Butterfly. By Da- 
vid Christie Murray 20 

1097 Burgomaster’s Wife, The. By 

George Ebers 20 

.317 By Mead and Stream. By Chas. 

Gibbon 20 

58 By the Gate of the Sea. By D. 
Christie Murray 10 

739 Caged Lion, The. By Charlotte 

M. Yonge 20 

240 Called Back. By Hugh Conway 10 
602 Camiola: A Girl With a Fort- 
une. By Justin McCarthy 20 

186 Canon’s Ward, The. By James 

Payn 20 

149 Captain’s Daughter, The. 

From the Russian of Pushkin 10 
159 Captain Norton’s Diary, and 
A Moment of Madness. By 

Florence Marryat 10 

555 Cara Roma. By Miss Grant. . . 20 
711 Cardinal Sin, A. By Hugh 
Conway, author of “ Called 
Back” 20 


502 Carriston’s Gif t. ByHughCoh- 
way, author of “Called Back ” 10 
917 Case of Reuben Malachi, The. 

By H. Sutherland Edwards.. 10 
937 Cashel Byron’s Profession. By 


George Bernard Shaw 20 

942 Cash on Delivery. By F. Du 

Boisgobey 20 

364 Castle Dangerous. By Sir Wal- 
ter Scott 10 

1001 Castle’s Heir, The; or. Lady 
Adelaide’s Oath. By Mrs. 

Henry Wood 20 

770 Castle of Otranto, The. By 

Horace Walpole 10 

746 Cavalry Life; or. Sketches and 
Stories in Barracks and Out. 

By J. S. Winter 20 

419 Chainbearer, The; or. The Lit- 
tlepage Manuscripts. By J. 

Fenimore Cooper 20 

1003 Chandos. By “Ouida.” 1st 

half 20 

1003 Chandos. By “Ouida.” 2d 

half 20 

783 Chantry House. By Charlotte 
M. Yonge 20 


790 Chaplet of Pearls, The ; or. The 
White and Black Ribaumonr. 
Charlotte M. Yonge. 1st half 20 
790 Chaplet of Pearls, The ; or, The 
White and Black Ribaumont. 
Charlotte M. Yonge. 2d half 20 
212 Charles O’Malley, the Irish 
Dragoon. By Charles Lever. 

1st half 20 


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THE SEASIDE LIBRAEY— Pocket Edition. 


212 Charles O’Malley, the Irish 
Dragoon. By Charles Lever. 

2d half 20 

554 Charlotte’s Inheritance. (A Se- 
quel to “ Birds of Pre3^”) By 

Miss M. E. Brad don 20 

61 Charlotte Temple. By Mrs. 

Rowson 10 

588 Cherry. By the author of “A 

Great Mistake” 10 

713 “ Clierry Ripe.” By Helen B. 

Mathers 20 

719 Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage. 

By Lord Byron 10 

966 Childhood’s Memories. By 

John Strange Winter 20 

882 Children of Gibeon. By Walter 

Besant 20 

920 Child of the Revolution, A, By 
the author of ” Mile. Mori ”.. 20 
676 Child’s History of England, A. 

By Charles Dickens 20 

1084 Chris. By W. E. Norris 20 

657 Christmas Angel. By B. L. Far- 
jeon 10 

631 Christo well. R. D. Blackmore 20 
507 Chronicles of the Canongate, 

and Other Stories. By Sir 
Walter Scott 10 

632 Clara Vaughan. By R. D. 

Blackmore 20 

949 Claribel’s Love Story; or, 
Love’s Hidden Depths. By 
Charlotte M. Braenie, author 

of “Dora Thorne” 20 

1040 Clarissa’s Ordeal. By the au- 
thor of “A Great Mistake.” 

1st half 20 

1040 Clarissa’s Ordeal. By the au- 
thor of “A Great Mistake.” 

2d half 20 

33 Clique of Gold, The. By Emile 

Gaboriau 20 

782 Closed Door, The. By F. Du 

Boisgobey. 1st half..' 20 

782 Closed Door, The. By F. Du 

Boisgobey. 2d half 20 

499 Cloven Foot, The. By Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

493 Colonel Enderby’s Wife. By 

Lucas Malet. 20 

1140 Colonel Quaritch, V. C. By H. 

Rider Haggard 20 

769 Cometh Up as a Flower. By 

Rhoda Broughton 20 

221 Cornin’ Thro’ the Rye. By 

Helen B. Mathers 20 

1059 Confessions of an English Opi- 
um-Eater. By Thomas De 

Quincey 20 

1013 Confessions of Gerald Est- 
court, The. By Florence Mar- 

ryat 20 

523 Consequences of a Duel, The. 

By F. Du Boisgobey 20 

547 Coquette’s Conquest, A. By 

Basil 20 

104 Coral Pin, The. By F. Du Bois- 
gobey. 1st half 20 


Coral Pin, The. By F. Du Bois- 
gobey. 2d half 20 

Corinna. By “Rita” 10 

Cossaciks, The. By Count Lyof 

Tolstoi 20 

Countess Eve, The. By J. H. 

Shorthouse 20 

Countess Gisela, The. By E. 

Mailitt 20 

Count of Monte-Cristo, The. 

By Alexander Dumas. Part I 30 
Count of Monte-Cristo, The. 

By Alexander Dumas. Part H 30 
Count’s Secret, The. By Emile 


Gaboriau. Part 1 20 

Count’s Secret, The. By Emile 

Gaboriau. Part II 20 

Country Gentleman, A. By 

I\lrs. Oiiphant 20 

Courting of Mary Smith, The. 

By F. W. Robinson 20 

Court Royal. A Story of Cross 
Currents. By S. Baring-Gould 20 
Cousin Pons" By Honord de 

Balzac 20 

Cousins. By L. B. Walford. . . 20 
Cradle and Spade. By William 

Sime 20 

Cradock Nowell. By R. D. 

Blackmore. 1st half 20 

Cradock Nowell. By R. D. 

Blackmore. 2d half 20 

Cranford. By Mrs. Gaskell. . . 20' 
Cricket on the Hearth, The. 

By Charles Dickens 10 

Crime of Christmas Day, The. 

By tlie author of “ My Ducats 

and My Daughter ” 10 

Crimson Stain, A. By Annie 

Bradshaw 10 

Cripps, the Carrier. By R. D. 

Blackmore 20 

Cry of Blood, The. By F. Du 

Boisgobey. 1st half 20 

Cry of Blood, The. By F. Du 
Boisgobey. 2d half 20 


Curly : An Actor’s Story. By 
John Coleman. Illustrated. 10 
Cut by the County; or, Grace 
Darnel. Miss M. E. Braddon 10 
Cynic Fortune. By D. Christie 
Murray 20 

Dais.y’s Dilemma. By Mrs. H. 

Lovett Cameron 20 

Dame Dui'den. By “Rita”.. 20 
Daniel Deronda. By George 

Eliot. 1st half 20 

Daniel Der’onda. By George 

Eliot. 2d half 20 

Dark Days. By Hugh Conway 10 
Dark House, The: AKnotUii- 
raveled. By G. Manville Fenn 10 
Dark Inheritance, A. By Mary 


Oecil Hay 20 

Dark Marriage Morn, A. By 

Charlotte M. Braeme 20 

Daughter of Heth, A. By Will- 
iam Black. 20 


104 

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1148 

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851 

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1025 

446 

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609 

1026 

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81 


THE SEx\.SIDE LIBRARY— Pocket Edition. 


6 


251 Daughter of the Stars, The, and 
Other Tales. Hup:h Conway, 
author of “ Called Back 10 

22 David Coppeidield. By Charles 

Dickens. Vol. 1 20 

22 David Copperfield. By Charles 

Dickens, Vol. II 20 

959 Dawn. Bj^ H. Rider Haggard. 20 
527 Days of My Life, The. By Mrs. 

Oliphant 20 

305 Dead Heart, A. By Charlotte 

M. Braenie 10 

374 Dead Man’s Secret, The; or, 
Tlie Adventures of a Medical 
Student. By Dr. Jupiter Paeon 20 
567 Dead Men’s Shoes. By Miss M. 


E. Braddon 20 

946 Dead Secret, The. By Wilkie 

Collins 20 

1071 Death of Ivan Iliitch, The. By 

Count Lyof Tolstoi 10 

1062 Deerslayer, The; or, 'I'he First 
War - Path. By J. Feniinore 

Cooper. 1st half 20 

1062 Deerslayer, The; or. The First 
War - Path. By J. Fenimore 

Cooper. 2d half 20 

286 Deldee ; or. The Iron Hand. By 

F. Warden 20 

1028 Devout Lover, A ; or, A Wasted 

Love. By Mrs. H. Lovett Cam- 
eron 20 

115 Diamond Cut Diamond. By T. 

Adolphus Trollope 10 

1124 Diana Barrington. By B. M. 

Croker 20 

744 Diana Carew ; or. For a Wom- 
an's Sake. By Mrs. Forrester 20 
350 Diana of the Crossways. By 

George Meredith 10 

250 Diana’s Discipline; or. Sun- 
shine and Roses. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeine 10 

478 Diavola; or. Nobody’s Daugh- 
ter. By Miss M. E. Braddon. 

Part 1 20 

478 Diavola; or. Nobody’s Daugh- 
ter. By Miss M. E. Braddon, 

Part II 20 

87 Dick Sand: or, A Captain at 
Fifteen. By Jules Verne — 20 
486 Dick’s Sweetheart. By “ The 

Duchess ” 20 

536 Dissolving Views. By Mrs. An- 

* drew Lang 10 

185 Dita. By Lady Margaret Ma- 
jendie 10 

894 D o c t o r C u p i d . By Rhoda 

Broughton 20 

594 Doctor Jacob. By Miss Betham- 

Ed wards 20 

108 Doctor Marigold. By Charles 

Dickens 10 

529 Doctor's Wife, The. By Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

721 Doloi-es. By Mrs. Forrester. . 20 
107 Dombej’ and Son. By Charles 
Dickens. 1st half 20 


Dombey and Son. By Charles 

Dickens. 2d half 20 

Donal Grant. By George Mac- 
Donald 20 

Don^ Gesualdo. By“Ouida.”. 10 
D^ovan : A Modern English- 
man. By Edna Lyall. 1st half 20 
Donovan: A Modern English- 
man. By Edna Lyall. 2d half 20 
Doom ! An Atlantic Episode. 

By Justin H. McCarthy, M.P. 10 
Dora Thorne. By Charlotte M. 


Braeme 20 

Doris. By “ The Duchess ”... 10 

Doris’s Fortune. By Florence 

Warden 20 

Doi-othy Forster. By Walter 

'Besaut 20 

Dorothy’s Venture. By Mary 

Cecil Hay 20 

Dove in the Eagle’s Nest, The. 

By Charlotte M. Yonge 20 

Drawn Game, A. By Basil... 20 

Driven to Baj". By Florence 

Marryat 20 

Driver Dallas. By John 

Strange Winter 10 

Duchess, The. By “ The Duch- 
ess ” 20 

Ducie Diamonds, The. By C. 

Blatherwick 10 

Dudley Carleon ; or. The Broth- 
er’s Secret, and George Caul- 
field’s Journey. By Miss M. E. 

Braddon 10 

Duke’s Secret, The. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 

“Dora Thorne” 20 

Dynamiter, The. By Robert 
Louis Stevenson and Fanny 
Van de Grift Stevenson 20 

East Lynne. By Mrs. Henry 

Wood. 1st half 20 

East Lynne. By Mrs. Henry 

Wood. 2d half 20 

Earl's Atonement, The. By 

Charlotte M. Braeme 20 

Earl’s Error, The. By Charlotte 

M. Braeme 20 

Effie Ogilvie. By Mrs. Oliphant 20 
Egoist, The. By George Mere- 
dith. 1st half 20 

Egoist, The. By George Mere- 
dith. 2d half 20 

Elect Lady, The. By George 

MacDonald 20 

Elizabeth’s Fortune. By Ber- 

tlia Thomas 20 

Emperor, The. By George 

Ebers 20 

England under Gladstone. 1880 
—1885. By Justin H. McCar- 
thy, M.P 20 

English Mail-Coach. The. By 

Thomas De Quince 3 ’^ 20 

Entangled. By E. Fairfax 
Byrrne 20 


107 

282 

671 

1149 

1149 

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665 

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521 


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THE SEASIDE LIBRARY—Pocket Edition. 


625 Erema; or. My Father’s Sin. 

By R. D. Blackmore 

118 Eric Bering. “ The Duchess ” 
96 Erling the Bold. By R. M. Bal- 

lantyne 

90 Ernest Maltravers. By Sir E. 

Bulwer Lytton 

1033 Esther : A Story for Girls. By 

Rosa Nouchette Carey 

786 Ethel Mildmay’s Follies. By 
author of “ Petite's Romance ” 
162 Eugene Aram. By Sir E. Bul- 
wer Lytton 

1122 Eve. By S. Baring-Gould 

764 Evil Genius, The. By Wilkie 

Collins 

470 Evelyn’s Folly. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “Dora 

Thorne ” 

62 Executor, The. By Mrs. Alex- 
ander 

13 Eyre’s Acquittal. By Helen B. 
Mathers 

319 Face to Face : A Fact in Seven 
Fables. By R. E. Francillon. 
877 Facing the Footlights. By Flor- 
ence Marry at 

538 Fair Country Maid, A. By E. 

Fairfax Byrrne 

905 Fair-Haired Alda, The. By 

Florence Marry at 

261 Fair Maid, A. By F. W. Robin- 
son 

417 Fair Maid of Perth, The; or, 
St. Valentine’s Day. By Sir 
Walter Scott 

626 Fair Mystery, A. By Charlotte 

M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne ” 

727 Pair Women. Mrs. Forrester 
30 Faith and Unfaith. By “ The 

Duchess’’ 

819 Fallen Idol, A. By F. Anstey.. 
294 False Vow, The; or, Hilda. By 
Charlotte M. Braeme, author 

of “DoraTliorne ” 

928 False Vow, The; or, Hilda. By 
Charlotte M. Braeme, author 
of “Dora Thorne.” (Large 

type edition) 

543 Family Affair, A. By Hugh 
Conway, author of “ Called 

Back ” 

338 Family Difficulty, The. By Sa- 
rah Doudney 

690 Far From the Madding Crowd. 

By Thomas Hardy 

798 Fashionof this World, The. By 

Helen B. Mathers 

680 Fast and Loose. By Arthur 

(Griffiths 

246 Fatal Dower, A. By the Author 

of “His Wedded Wife” 

299 Fatal Lilies, The. By Charlotte 

M. Braeme 

548 Fatal Marriage, A, and The 
Shadow in the Corner. By 
Miss M. E. Braddon 


1098 Fatal Three, The. . By Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

1043 Faust. By (Goethe ^ 

693 Felix Holt, the Radical. By 

George Eliot 20 

542 Fenton’s Quest. By Miss M. E. 

Braddon 20 

993 Fighting the Air. By Florence 

Mai-i-yat 20 

7 File No. 113. Emile Gaboriau 20 
575 Finger of Fate, The. By Cap- 
tain Mayne Reid 20 

95 Fire Brigade, The. By R. M. 

Ballantyne 10 

674 First Person Singular. By Da- 
vid Christie Murray 20 

199 Fisher Village, The. By Anne 

Beafe 10 

579 Flower of Doom, The, and 
Other Stories. By M. Betham- 

Edwards 10 

1129 Flying Dutchman, The ; or, The 
Death Ship. By W. Clark Rus- 
sell 20 

156 “For a Dream’s Sake.” By 

Mrs. Herbert Martin 20 

745 For Another’s Sin; or, A 
Struggle for Love. By Char- 
lotte M Braeme 20 

1151 For Faith and Freedom. By 

Walter Besant. 1st half 20 

1151 For Faith and Freedom. By 

Walter Besant. 2d half 20 

197 For Her Dear Sake. By Mary 

Cecil Hay 20 

150 For Himself Alone. By T. W. 

Speight 10 

278 For Life and Love. By Alison 10 
608 For Lilias. By Rosa Nouchette 

Care.y. 1st half 20 

608 For Lilias. By Rosa Nouchette 

Carey. 2d half 20 

712 For Maimie’s Sake. By Grant 

Allen 20 

586 “ For Percival.” By Margaret 

Veley 20 

173 Foreigners, The. By Eleanor C. 

Price 20 

997 Forging the Fetters, and The 
Australian Aunt. By Mrs. 

A nrlpt' QD 

171 Fortune’s Wheel. By “The 

Duchess” 10 

468 Fortunes, Good and Bad, of*a 
Sewing-Girl, The. By Char- 
lotte M. Stanley 10 

216 Foul Play. By Charles Reade 20 
438 Found Out. By Helen B. 
Mathers 10 


333 Frank Fairlegh; or, Scenes 
From the Life of a Private 
Pupil. By Frank E. Smedley 20 
805 Freres, The. By Mrs. Alex- 
ander. 1st half 20 

805 Freres, The. By Mrs. Alex- 
ander. 2d half 20 

226 Friendship. By “Ouida”.... 20 


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THE SEASIDE LIBRARY— Pocket Edition. 


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288 From Gloom to Sunlight; or 
From Out the Gloom. By 
Charlotte M. Braeme 

955 From Gloom to Sunlight; or, 

From Out the Gloom. By 
Charlotte M. Braeme. (Large 

type edition) 

732 From Olympus to Hades. By 

Mrs. Forrester 

288 From Out the Gloom; or, From 
Gloom to Sunlight. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 
“ Dora Thorne ” 

956 From Out the Gloom; or. From 

Gloom to Sunlight. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme. (Large type 

edition) 

348 From Post to Finish. A Racing 
Romance. By Hawley Smart 
1152 From the Earth to the Moon. 

By Jules Verne. Illustrated. . 
1044 Frozen Pirate, The. By W. 
Clark Russell 


285 Gambler’s Wife, The 

971 Garrison Gossip: Gathered in 

Blankhampton. John Strange 

Winter 

772 Gascoyne, the Sandal-Wood 
Trader. By R. M. Ballantyne 
1126 Gentleman and Courtier. By 

Florence Marryat 

549 George Caulfield’s Journey. 

By Miss M. E. Braddon 

365 George Christy ; or, The Fort- 
unes of a Minstrel. By Tony 

Pastor 

331 Gerald. By Eleanor C. Price. 
208 Ghost of (Charlotte Cray, The, 
and Other Stories. By Flor- 
ence Marryat 

618 Ghost’s Touch, The. By Wilkie 

Collins 

225 Giant’s Robe, The. F. Anstey 
300 Gilded Sin, A. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne ” 

508 Girl at the Gate, The. By 

Wilkie Collins 

954 Girl’s Heart, A. By the author 

of “ Nobody’s Darling ”. 

867 Girls of Feversham, The. By 

Florence Marryat 

644 Girton Girl, A. By Mrs. Annie 

Edwards 

140 Glorious Fortune, A. By Wal- 

1092 Glorious Gallop, A. By Mrs. 

Edward Kennard 

647 Goblin Gold. By May Crom- 

melin 

450 Godfrey Helstone. By Georgi- 
ana M. Craik 

972 Gold Elsie. By E. Marlitt 

911 Golden Bells: A Peal in Seven 

^ Changes. By R. E. Francillon 
153 Golden Calf,‘The. By Miss BI. 
E. Braddon 


306 Golden Dawn, A. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “Dora 

Thorne” 10 

656 Golden Flood, The. By R. E. 

Francillon and Wm. Senior. . 10 
1010 Golden Gates. By Charlotte 


Thorne ” 20 

172 “ Golden Girls.” By Alan Bluir 20 
292 Golden Heart, A. By Charlotte 
BI. Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne” 10 

916 Golden Hope, The. By W. 

Clark Russell 20 

667 Golden Lion of Granpere, The. 

By Anthonj- Trollope 20 

758 “ Good-bye, Sweetheart!” By 

Rhoda Broughton 20 

356 Good Hater, A. By Frederick 

Boyle 20 

801 Good-Natured Man, The. By 


981 Granville de Vigne. “Ouida.” 

Isthalf 20 

981 Granville de Vigne. “Ouida.” 

2d half 20 

710 Greatest Heiress in England, 

The. By BIrs. Oliphant 20 

439 Great Expectations. By Chas. 

Dickens. . 20 

135 Great Heiress, A : A Fortune in 
Seven Checks. By R. E. Fran- 
cillon 10 

986 Great Hesper, The. By Frank 

Barrett 20 

244 Great Mistake, ’A. By the au- 
thor of “ Cherry ” 20 

170 Great Treason, A. By Blary 

Hoppus. 1st half 20 

170 Great Treason, A. By Blary 

Hoppus. 2d half 20 

751 Great Voyages and Great N avi- 
gators. Jules Verne. 1st half 20 
751 Great Voyages and Great Navi- 
gators. Jules Verne. 2d half 20 
138 Green Pastures and Piccadilly. 

By Wm. Black .’... 20 

231 Griffith Gaunt; or. Jealousy. 

By Charles Reade 20 

677 Griselda. By the author of “ A 

Woman’s Love-Story” 20 

469 Guiding Star, A; or, LadyDa- 
mer’s Secret. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne” 20 

896 Guilty River, The. By Wilkie 
Collins 20 

597 Haco the Dreamer. By William 

Si me 10 

668 Half-Way. An Anglo-French 

Romance 20 

663 Handy Andy. By Samuel Lover 20 
84 Hard Times. Charles Dickens 10 
622 Harry Heathcote of Gangoil. 

By Anthony Trollope 10 

191 Harry Lorrequer. By Charles 
Lever . . 20 


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THE SEASIDE LIBRARY— Pocket Edition. 


569 Harry Mnir. By Mrs. Oliphant 20 


873 Harvest of Wild Oats, A. By 

Florence Marryat 20 

785 Haunted Chamber, The. By 

“ The Duchess ’’ 10 

977 Haunted Hotel, The. By Wil- 
kie Collins 20 

958 Haunted Life. A; or. Her Tena- 
ble Sin. By Cliarlotte M. 
Braeme, author of “Dora 

Tiiorne” 20 

169 Haunted Man, The. By Charles 

Dickens 10 

533 Hazel Kirke. By'Marie Walsh. 20 
966 He, by the author of “ King 
Solomon’s WTves” 20 

S85 Headsman, The; or, The Ab- 
baye des Vignerons. By J. 

Fenimore Cooper 20 

811 Head Station, The. By Mrs. 

Campbell-Praed 20 

572 Healey. By Jessie Fothergill 20 
167 Heart and Science. By WTlkie 

Collins 20 

444 Heartof Jane Warner, The. By 
Florence Marryat 20 

891 Heartof Mid-Lothian, The. By 

Sir Walter Scott 20 

695 Hearts: Queen, Knave, and 
Deuce. By David Christie 

Murray 20 

1155 Heiress of Arne, The. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 

“ Dora Tiiorne ’’ 20 

741 Heiress of Hilldrop, The; or, 
The Romance of a Young 
Girl. By Charlotte M. Braeme, 
author of “ Dora Thorne ”... 20 


1104 Heir of Linne, The. By Rob- 


ert Buchanan 20 

823 Heir of the Ages, The. By 

James Payn 20 

689 Heir Presumptive, The. By 

Florence Marryat 20 

1021 Heir to Ashley, The. By Mrs. 

Henry ’SVood 20 

513 Helen Whitney’s "Wedding, and 
Other Tales. By Mrs. Henry 
Wood 10 

535 Henrietta’s Wish; or, Domi- 
neering. By Charlotte M. 

Yonge 10 

806 Her Dearest Foe. By Mrs. Alex- 
ander. 1st half 20 

806 Her Dearest Foe. By Mrs. Alex- 
ander. 2d half 20 

160 Her Gentle Deeds. By Sarah 
Tytler 10 

814 Heritageof Laugdale, The. By 

Mrs. Alexander 20 

956 Her .Johnnie. By Violet W^hyte 20 
860 Her Lord and Master. By Flor- 
ence Marryat 20 

297 Her IMarriage Vo\v; or, Hil- 
ary’s Folly. By Charlotte M. 
Braeme, author of “ Dora 
Thorne” 10 


953 Her Marriage Vow; or, Hil- 
ary’s Folly. By Charlotte M. 
Braeme, author of “ Dora 
Thorne.” (Large type edition) 20 
576 Her Martyrdom. By Cliarlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 


Thorne ” 20 

19 Her Mother’s Sin. By Cliarlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne” 10 

824 Her Own Doing. W. E. Norris 10 
984 Her Own Sister. By E. S. Will- 
iamson 20 

1065 Herr Paulus: His Rise, His 
Greatness, and His Fall. By 

Walter Besant .". 20 

978 Her Second Love. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 
Thorne” 20 


958 Her Terrible Sin; or, A Haunt- 
ed Life. Charlotte M. Braeme, 
author of “ Dora Thorne ”... 20 


196 Hidden Perils. Mary Cecil Hay 20 

518 Hidden Sin, The. A Novel 20 

933 Hidden Terror, A. By Mary 

Albert 20 

297 Hilary’s Folly; or. Her Mar- 
riage Vow. By Charlotte M. 
Braeme, author of “Dora 

Thorne” 10 

953 Hilary’s Folly; or. Her Mar- 
riage Vow. By Charlotte M. 
Braeme. (Large type edition) 20 
294 Hilda; or, The False Vow. By 
Charlotte M. Braeme, author 

of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

928 Hilda; or. The l*’alse Vow. By 
Charlotte M. Braeme. (Large 

type edition) 20 

658 History of a Week, The. By 

Mrs. L. B. Walford 10 

165 History of Henry Esmond, The. 

By WTlliam M. Thackeray. . . 20 
461 His Wedded Wife. By author 

of “ A Fatal Dower ” 20 

1006 His Wife’s Judgment. By 
Charlotte M. Braeme, author 

of “ Dora Thorne ” 20 

904 Holy Rose, The. By Walter Be- 
sant 10 

378 Homeward Bound; or. The 

Chase. By J. F. Cooper 20 

1041 Home Again. By George Mac- 
donald 20 

379 Home as Found. (Sequel to 

“ Homeward Bound.”) By J. 

Fenimore Codper 20 

1089 Home Sounds. By E. Werner 20 
1094 Homo Sum. By George Ebers 20 

1103 Jlonorable Mrs. Vereker, The. 

By “ The Duchess ” 20 


800 Hopes and Fears ; or. Scenes 
from tlie Life of a Spinster. 
Charlotte M. Yonge. 1st half 20 
800 Hopes and Fears; or. Scenes 
from the IJfe of a Spinster. 
Charlotte M. Yonge. 2d half 20 
552 Hostages to Fortune. By Miss 
M. E. Braddon 20 


THE SEASIDE LIBKARY— Pocket Edition. 


9 


600 Houp-Lal By John Strange 

Winter. (Illustrated) 10 

703 House Divided Against Itself, 

A. By Mrs. Olipliant 20 

248 House on the Marsh, The. By 

F. Warden 10 

351 House on the Moor, The. By 


874 House Party, A. By “ Ouida ” 10 
481 House that Jack Built, The. 

By Alison 10 

754 How to be Happy Though Mar- 
ried. By a (Graduate in the 

University of Matrimon}^ 20 

748 Hurrish: A Stud.y. By the 

Hon. Emily Lawless 20 

198 Husband’s Story, A lO 

889 Ichabod. A Portrait. By Bertha 

Thomas 10 

996 Idalia. By “ Ouida.” 1st half 20 
996 Idalia. By “ Ouida.” 2d half 20 

188 Idonea. By Anne Beale 20 

807 If Love Be Love. By D. Cecil 

Gibbs 20 

715 I Have Lived and Loved. By 

Mrs. Forrester 20 

762 Impressions of Theophrastus 
Such. By George Eliot 10 

303 Ingledew House. By Charlotte 

M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne” 10 

796 In a Grass Country. By Mrs. 

H. Lovett Cameron 20 

1009 In an Evil Hour, and Other 
Stories. By ‘‘The Duchess” 20 

304 In Cupid’s Net. By Charlotte 

M. Braeme, author of ‘‘ Dora 

Thorne” ? 10 

404 In Durance Vile, and Other 
Stories. By “ The Duchess” 10 
1132 In Far Lochaber. By William 

Black 20 

324 In Luck at Last. By Walter 

Besant 10 

672 In Maremma. By ” Ouida.” 1st 


672 In Maremma. By ” Ouida.” 2d 

half 20 

1143 Inner House, The. By ’Walter 

Besant 20 

604 Innocent: A Tale of Modern 
Life. By Mrs. Olipliant. 1st 

half 20 

604 Innocent: A Tale of Modern 
Life. By Mrs. Olipliant. 2d 

half 20 

577 In Peril and Privation. By 

James Payn 10 

638 In Quarters with the 25th (The 
Black Horse) Dragoons. By 

J. S. Winter 10 

759 In Shallow Waters. By Annie 

Armitt 20 

39 In Silk Attire. By Wm. Black 20 
1111 In the Counselor’s House. By 

E. Marlitt 20 

738 In the Golden Days. By Edna 
LyaU 20 


In the Middle Watch. By W. 

Clark Russell 20 

111 the Schillingscourt. By E. 

Marlitt 20 

In the West Countrie. By May 

Crommelin 20 

Introduced to Society. By 

Hamilton Aid6 10 

lone Stewart. By Mrs. E. Lynn 

Linton 20 

Irene’s Vow. By Charlotte M. 

Braeme 20 

“ I Say No or. The Love-Let- 
ter Answered. By Wilkie Col- 
lins 20 

“It is Never Too Late to 
Mend.” By Charles Reade. .. 20 
Ivanhoe. By Sir Walter Scott 20 

Jack. By Alphonse Daudet. . . 20 
Jackanapes, and Other Stories. 

By Juliana Horatia Ewing. . . 10 
Jack of All Trades. By Charles 

Reade 10 

Jack Tier; or. The Florida 
Reef. By J. Fenimore Cooper 20 
Jack’s Courtship. By W. Clark 

Russell. 1st half 20 

Jack’s Courtship. By W. Clark 

Russell. 2d half 20 

James Gordon’s Wife. A Novel 20 
Jane Eyre. Charlotte Bront6 20 
Janet’s Repentance. By 

George Eliot 10 

Jenifer. By Annie Thomas. . . 20 
Jess. By H. Rider Haggard .. 20 
J essie. By the author of “ Ad- 

die's Husband” 20 

Jet: Her Face or Her Fortune? 

By Mrs. Annie Edwards 10 

Joan. By Rhoda Broughton. 20 
Joan Wentworth. By Katha- 
rine S. Macquoid 20 

John. By Mrs. Olipliant 20 

John Buil and His Island. By 

Max O’Rell 10 

John Bull’s Neighbor in Her 
True Light. By a “Brutal 

Saxon” 10 

John Halifax, Gentleman. By 

Miss Mulock. 1st half 20 

John Halifax, Gentleman. By 

Miss Mulock. 2d half 20 

John Holdsworth', Chief Mate. 

By W. Clark Russell 10 

John Maidment. By Julian 

Sturgis 20 

Jolin IMarchmont’s Legacy. By 

Miss M, E. Braddon 20 

Joshua Haggard’s Daughter. 

By Miss M. E. Braddon 20 

Joy; or, The Light of Cold- 
Home Ford. By May Crom- 
melin 20 

Judgment of God, A. By E. 

AVerner 20 

Judith Shakespeare: Her Love 
Affairs and Other Advent- 
ures. By William Black 20 


682 

1093 

452 

383 

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1031 

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THE SEASIDE LIBRARY— Pocket Edition. 


332 Judith Wynne, B}’" author of 

“ Lady Lovelace ” 

898 Julia and Her Romeo. Da- 
vid Christie Murray 

80 June. By Mrs. Forrester 

661 Just As I Am ; or, A Living Lie. 
By Miss M. E. Braddon 


1055 Katharine Regina. By Walter 

Besant 

1063 Kenilworth. By Sir Walter 

Scott, 1st half.*. 

1063 Kenilworth, By Sir Walter 

Scott. 2d half 

832 Kidnapped, By Robert Louis 

Stevenson 

857 Kildee ; or. The Sphinx of the 
Red House. B}- Mary 

Bryan. 1st half 

857 Kildee; or, The Sphinx of the 
Red House. By Mary E. 

Bryan, 2d half 

126 Kilmeny, By William Black. 
808 King Arthur. Not a Love 

Story. By Miss Mulock 

- 753 King Solomon’s Mines. By H. 

Rider Haggard 

970 King Solomon’s Wives; or, The 
Phantom Mines. By Hyder 

Ragged. (Illustrated) 

435 Klytia : A Story of Heidelberg 
Castle. By George Taylor. . , 
1147 Knight-Errant. ByEdnaLyall. 

1st half 

1147 Knight-Errant. ByEdnaLyall. 
2d half 


1001 Lady Adelaide’s Oath; or. The 
Castle’s Heir. By Mrs. Henry 

Wood 

35 Lady Aiidley’s Secret. By Miss 

M. E. Braddon 

733 Lady Branksmere. By “ The 

Duchess” 

516 Lady Castlemaine's Divorce; 
or. Put Asunder. ByChailotte 

M. Braeme 

219 Lady Clare ; or, The Master of 
the Forges. From the French 

of Georges Ohnet 

469 Lady Darner’s Secret; or, A 
Guiding Star, B}' Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne ” 

931 Lady Diana’s Pride. By Cliai'- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 

“ Dora Thornn ” 

268 Lady Gay’s Pride ; or. The Mi- 
ser’s Treasure. By Mrs. Alex. 

McVeigh Miller 

1042 Lady (Irace. By Mrs. Henry 

Wood 

305 Lady Gwendoline’s Dream. By 
Charlotte M. Braeme, author 

of “Dora Thorne” 

294 Lady Hutton's Ward. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme 


928 Lady Hutton’s Ward. By Char- 
lotte M. Bi*aeme. (Large type 

edition) 20 

506 Lady Lovelace. By the author 
of “Judith Wynne”....."..,. 20 
155 Lady Muriel’s Secret. By Jean 

Micidlenias 20 

161 Lady of Lyons, The. Founded 
on the Play of that title by 

Lord Lytton *. 10 

1060 Lady of the Lake, The. By Sir 

Wah er Scott, Bart 20 

497 Lady’s Mile, The. By Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

875 Lady Val worth’s Diamonds. 

By “Tlie Duchess ” 20 

652 Lady with the Rubies, The. By 

E. Marlitt 20 

269 Lancaster s Choice. By Mrs. 

Alex. McVeigh Miller 20 

599 Lancelot Ward, M.P. George 

Temple 10 

32 Land Leaguers, The. By An- 
thony Trollope 20 

1099 Lasses of Leverhouse, The. 

By Jessie Fothergill 20 

684 Last Days at Apswich .10 

40 Last Da.ys of Pompeii, The. By 
SirE. Bulwer Lytton 20 


130 Last of the Barons, The, By Sir 
E. Bulwer Lytton. 1st half.. 20 
.30 Last oftlie Barons, The. By Sir 
E. Bulwer Lytton. 2d half.. 20 
60 Last of the Mohicans, The. By 


J. Fenimore Cooper 20 

921 Late Miss Holliugford, The. 

By Rosa Mulholland 10 

267 Laui^l Vane; or, The Girls’ 
Conspiracy. By Mrs. Alex. 

McVeigh 'Miller 20 

455 Lazarus in London. By F, W. 

Robinson 20 

839 Leah ; A Woman of Fashion. 

-By Mrs. Annie Edwards 20 

386 Led Astray; or, “ La Petite 
Comtesse.” Octave Feuillet. 10 
1095 Legacy of Cain, The. _ By Wil- 
kie Collins .'. 20 

353 Legend of Montrose, A. By Sir 

Walter Scott 20 

164 Leila; or, The Siege of Gren- 
ada. By Sir E. Bulwer Lytton 10 
885 Les Mis6rables. Victor Hugo. 

Part 1 20 

885 Les Mis^rables. Victor Hugo. 

Part II 20 

885 Les Mis6rables. Victor Hugo. 

Part HI 20 

408 Lester’s Secret. By Mary Cecil 

Hay 20 

988 Letty Leigh. By Charlotte M. 
Braeme. author of “ Dora 

Thorne” 20 

562 Lewis Arundel; or, The Rail- 
road of Life. By Frank E. 

Smedley 20 

437 Life and Adventures of Martin 
CUiuzzlewit. By Charles Dick- 
ens. 1st half 20 


20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

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THE SEASIDE LIBRARY— Pocket Edition. 


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437 Life and Adventures of Martin 
Chuzzlewit. By Charles Dick- 
ens. 2d half 

774 Life and Travels of Mungo 
Til0 

1057 Life Interest, A. By Mrs. 



698 Life’s Atonement, A. By David 

Christie Murray 

1070 Life’s Mistake, A. By Mrs. H. 

Lovett Cameron 

1027 Life’s Secret, A. By Mrs. Henry 

Wood 

1036 Like and Unlike. By Miss M. 

E. Braddon 

617 Like Dian’s Kiss. By “ Rita ” 
307 Like no Other Love. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 

“ Dora Thorne ” 

402 Lilliesleaf; or, Passages in the 
Life of Mrs. Margaret Mait- 
land of Sunnyside. By Mrs. 

Oliphant 

397 Lionel Lincoln; or. The 
Leaguer of Boston. By J. 

Fenimore Cooper 

94 Little Dorrit. By Charles Dick- 
ens. 1st half 

94 Little Dorrit. By Charles Dick- 
ens. 2d half 

109 Little Loo. W. Clark Russell 
179 Little Make-Believe. By B. L. 

Far jeon 

1083 Little Old Blan of the Batig- 
nolles, The. By Emile Ga- 

boriau 

45 Little Pilgrim, A. By Mrs. Oli- 
phant.. 

272 Little Savage, The. By Captain 

Marryat 

Ill Little School-master Mark, 
The. By J. H. Shorthouse . . 
899 Little Stepson, A. By Florence 

IMarryat 

878 Little Tu’penny. By S. Baring- 

Gould 

804 Living or Dead. By Hugh Con- 
way, author of “Called Back ” 
919 Locksley Hall Sixty Years Af- 
ter, etc. By Alfred, Lord 

Tennyson, P.L., D.C.L 

797 Look Before You Leap. By 

Mrs. Alexander 

1134 Lord Elesmere’s Wife. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme. 1st half. . 
1134 Lord Elesmere's Wife. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme. 2d half 

92 Lord Lynne’s Choice. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 

“Dora Thorne” 

749 Lord Vaneconrt’s Daughter. 

By Mabel Collins 

67 Lorna Doone. By R. D. Black- 

more. 1st half 

67 Lorna Doone. By R. D. Black- 

more. 2d half 

473 Lost Son, A. By Mary Linskill 
854 Lottery of Life, The. By John 
Brougham 


453 Lottery Ticket, The. By F. Du 

Boisgobey 20 

479 Louisa. By Katharine S. Mac- 

quoid 20 

742 Love and Life. By Charlotte 

M. Yonge 20 

273 Love and Mirage; or. The 
Waiting on an Island. By M. 

Betham-Ed wards 10 

232 Love and Money ; or, A Peril- 
ous Secret. By Chas. Reade. 10 
146 Lbve Finds the Way, and Oth- 
er Stories. By Walter Besant 

and James Rice 10 

306 Love for a Da 3 ^ By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne” 10 

313 Lover’s Creed, The. By Mrs. 

Cashel-Hoey 20 

893 Love’s Conflict. By Florence 

Marryat. 1st half 20 

893 Love’s Conflict. By Florence 

Marrv^at. 2d half 20 

573 Love’s Harvest. B. L. Far jeon 20 
949 Love’s Hidden Depths; or, 
Claribel’s Love Story. By 
Charlotte M. Braeme, author 

of “ Dora Thorne ” 20 

175 Love’s Random Shot. By Wil- 
kie Collins 10 

757 Love’s Martyr. Bj^ Laurence 

Alma Taderna 10 

291 Love’s Warfare. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne” 10 

73 Love’s Victory ; or. Redeemed 
by Love. By Charlotte M. 
Braeme, author of “Dora 

Thorne” 20 

118 Loys, Lord Berresford. By 

“The Duchess” 10 

582 Lucia, Hugh and Another. By 

Mrs. J. H. Needell 20 

589 Luck of the Darrells, The. By 

James Pay n 20 

901 Lucky Disappointment, A. By 

Florence Marryat 10 

370 Lucy Crofton. Mrs. Oliphant 10 
1155 Lured Away; or. The Story of 
a Wedding-Ring. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme 20 

44 Macleod of Dare. By William 

■ Black 20 

526 Madame De Presnel. By E. 

Frances Poynter 20 

345 Madam. By Mrs. Oliphant... 20 
1127 Madam Midas. By Fergus W. 

Hume 20 

78 Madcap Violet. By Wm. Black 20 
1004 Mad Dumaresq. By Florence 

Marryat ’. 20 

510 Mad Love, A. By the author of 

“ Lover and Lord ” 10 

1014 Mad Love, A. By Charlotte M. 
Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne ” 20 

69 Madolin’s Lover. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme 20 


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THE SEASIDE LIBRARY — Pocket Edition. 


341 Madolin Rivers ; or, The Little 
Beauty of Red Oak Seminary. 

By Laura Jean Libbey 20 

377 Magdalen Hepburn : A Story of 
the Scottish Reformation. By 

Mrs. Olipbant 20 

494 Maiden All Forlorn, A. By 

“ The Duchess ” 10 

64 Maiden Fair, A. By Charles 

Gibbon 10 

121 Maid of Athens. By Justin 

McCarthy 20 

633 Maid of Sker, The. By R. D. 

Blackmore. 1st half 20 

633 Maid of Sker, Tiie. By R. D. 

Blackmore. 2d half 20 

229 Maid, Wife, or Widow? By 
Mrs. Alexander 10 

1105 Maiwa’s Revenge. By H. Ri- 
der Haggard 20 

1019 Major and Minor. By W. E. 

Norris. 1st half 20 

1019 Major and Minor. By W. E. 

Norris. 2d half 20 

808 Major Frank. By A. L. G. Bos- 

boom-Toussaint 20 

702 Man and Wife. By Wilkie Col- 
lins. 1st half 20 

702 Man and Wife. By Wilkie Col- 
lins. 2d half 20 

277 Man of His Word, A. By W. 

E. Norris 10 

688 Man -of Honor, A. By John 

Strange Winter. Illustrated. 10 
217 Man Sue Cared For, The. By 

F. W. Robinson 20 

871 Margaret Maitland. By Mrs. 

Oliphant 20 

755 Margery Daw, A Novel 20 

922 Marjorie. By Charlotte M. 
Braeme, author of “Dora 

Thorne” 20 

451 Market Harborough, and In- 
side the Bar. By G. J. Whyte- 

Melville 20 

773 Mark of Cain, The. By Andrew 

Lang 10 

1002 Marriage at a Venture. By 

Emile Gaboriau 20 

334 Marriage of Convenience, A. 

By Harriett Jay 10 

480 Married in Haste. Edited by 

Miss M. E. Braddon 20 

476 Married in Haste; or, Between 
Two Sins. By Charlotte M. 
Braeme 20 

992 Marrying and Giving in Mar- 
riage. By id rs. Moles worth.. 20 
1047 Marvel. By “Tlie Duchess”.. 20 
615 Mary Anerley. By R. D. Black- 

more 20 

10£<5 Masaniello; or, The Fisherman 
of Naples. By Alexander Du- 
mas 20 

132 Master Humphrey’s Clock. By 

Charles Dickens 10 

646 Master of the Mine, The. By 
Robert Buchanan 20 


Blaster Passion, The. By Flor- 


ence Blarryat 20 

BI atapan Aff ai r, The. By F. D u 

Boisgobey. 1st half 20 

Blatapan Affair, The. By F. 

Du Boisgobey. 2d half 20 


Mathias Sandorf. By Jules 
Verne. (Illustrated.) Parti. 10 
Mathias Sandorf. By Jules 
Verne. (Illustrated.) Part II 10 
Blathias Sandorf. IBy Jules 
Verne. (Illustrated.) Part III 10 
Blatt: A Tale of a Caravan. 


By Robert Buchanan 10 

Blaiileverer’s Blillions. By T. 

Wemyss Reid 20 

Bla}^ Blossom ; or. Between 
Two Loves. By Blargaret Lee 20 
Mayor of Caster bridge, The. 

By Thomas Hardy 20 

Blemoirs and Resolutions of 
Adam Graeme of Blossgray, 
including .some Chronicles of 
the Borough of Fendie. By 

BIrs. Oliphant 20 

Blental Struggle, A. By “The 

Duchess” 20 

Blercedes of Castile; or, The 
Voyage to Cathay. B}’^ J. Fen- 

imore Cooper 20 

Blerchant’s Clerk, The. By 

Samuel Warren 10 

Blerry Blen, The, and Other 
Tales and Fables. By Robert 

Louis Stevenson 20 

Michael Strogoff; or. The (jou- 
rier of the Czar. Jules Verne 20 
Middlemarch. B3’ George Eliot. 

1st half 20 

Middlemarch. By George Eliot. 

2d half 20 

Blidnight Sun, The. By Fred- 
rika Bremer 10 


Blidshipman, The, Blarmaduke 
Blerry. Wm. H. G. Kingston. 20 
Blignon. By BIrs. Forrestei-.. 20 
Blignon ; or. Booties’ Baby. By 

J. S. Winter. Illustrated 10 

Mignon’s Husband. By John 


Strange Winter 20 

Mignon’s Secret. Bj”" John 

Strange Winter 10 

Blikado, The. and Other Comic 
Operas. Written by W. S. 
Gilbert. Composed b.y Arthur 

Sullivan .* 20 

Blildred Trevanion. By “ The 

Duchess ” 10 

Bliles Wallingford. (Sequel to 
“ Afloat and Ashore.”) By J. 

Fenimore Cooper '. ... 20 

Blill on the Floss, The. By 

George Eliot 20 

Bliller’s Daughter, The; or. The 
Belle of Lynn. By Charlotte 
BI. Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne ” 20 

Blilly’s Hero. F. W. Robinson 20 
Millionaire, The 20 


825 

1085 

1085 

578 

578 

578 

398 

723 

330 

791 

337 

771 

424 

406 

940 

1020 

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187 

763 

729 

492 

1032 

876 

692 

390 

414 

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929 

157 

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THE SEASIDE LIBRARY— Pock ict Edition. 


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205 Minister's Wife, The. By Mrs. 

Oliphant 30 

1051 Misadventures of John Nichol- 
son, The. By Robert Louis 

Stevenson 10 

399 Miss Brown. By Vernon Lee. 20 

369 Miss Bretherton. By Mrs. Hum- 
phry Ward 10 

1007 Miss Gascoigne. By Mrs. J. 

H. Riddell 20 

866 Miss Harrington’s Husband; 
or, Spiders of Society. By 

Florence Marryat 20 

245 Miss Tommy. By Miss Mulock 10 

315 Mistletoe Bough, The. Edited 

by Miss M. E. Braddon 20 

618 Mistletoe Bough, The. Christ- 
mas, 1885. Edited by Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

890 Mistletoe Bough, The. Christ- 
mas, 1886. Edited by Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

1038 Mistress and Maid. By Miss 

Mulock 20 

1030 Mistress of Ibichstein. By Fr. 

Henkel 20 

298 Mitchelhurst Place. By Marga- 
ret Veley 10 

584 Mixed Motives 10 

1091 Modern Cinderella, A. By 

Charlotte M. Braeme 10 

1016 Modern Circe, A. By “The 

Duchess” 20 

887 Modern Telemachus, A. By 
Charlotte M. Yonge 20 

881 Mohawks. By Miss M. E. Brad- 
don. 1st haif 20 

881 Mohawks. By Miss M. E. Brad- 
don. 2d half 20 

2 Molly Bawn. “ The Duchess ” 20 
159 Moment of Madness, A. By 

Florence Marryat 10 

125 Monarch of Mincing Lane, The. 

By William Black 20 

1054 Mona’s Choice. By Mrs. Alex- 
ander 20 

201 Monastery, The. By Sir Walter 

’ Scott 20 

119 Monica, and A Rose Distill’d. 

By “The Duchess” 10 

431 Monikins,The. ByJ. Fenimore 




26 Monsieur Lecoq. By Emile 

Gaboriau. Vol. 1 20 

26 Monsieur Lecoq. By Emile 

Gaboriau. Vol. II 20 

166 Moonshine and Marguerites. 

By “The Duchess” 10 

102 Moonstone, The. By Wilkie 

Collins 20 

303 More Bitter than Death. By 

Charlotte M. Braeme 10 

178 More Leaves from the Journal 
of a Life in the Highlands. 

By Queen Victoria 10 

116 Moths. By “Ouida” 20 

496 Mount Royal. By Miss M. E. 
Braddon 20 


Mr. Butler’s Ward. By F. Ma- 
bel Robinson 20 

Mr, Meeson’s Will. By H. Ri- 
der Haggard 20 

Mrs. Carr’s Companion. ByM. 

G. Wightwick 10 

Mrs. Dymond. By Miss Thack- 
eray.. 20 

Mrs. Geoffrey. “ The Duchess.” 

(Large type edition) 20 

Mrs. Geoffrey. “The Duchess” 10 
Mrs. Hollyer. By Georgiana M. 

Craik 20 

Mrs. Keith’s Crime 10 

Mrs. Lirriper’s Lodgings. By 

Charles Dickens. 10 

Mrs. Smith of Longmains. By 

Rhoda Broughton 10 

Mrs. Vereker’s Courier Maid. 

By Mrs. Alexander 10 

Mr. Midshipman Easy. By 

Captain Marryat 20 

Mr. Smith : A Part of His Life. 

ByB. L. Walford 20 

Murder or Manslaughter? By 

Helen B. Mathers 10 

My Ducats and My Daughter. 

By the author of “ The (3rime 

of Christmas Day” 20 

My Fellow Laborer. By H. 

Rider Haggard 20 

My Friend Jim. W. E. Norris 20 
My Friends and I. Edited by 

Julian Sturgis 10 

My Hero. By Mrs. Forrester. 20 
My Husband and I. By Count 

I..yof Tolstoi 10 

My Lady Green Sleeves. By 

Helen B. Mathers 20 

My Lady’s Money. By Wilkie 

Collins 10 

My Lord and My Lady. By 

Mrs. Forrester 20 

“ My Own Child.” By Florence 

Marryat 20 

My Poor Wife. By the author 

of “ Addie’s Husband ” 10 

My Sister Kate. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne” 10 

My Sister the Actress. By Florr 

ence Marry at 20 

Mysteries of Paris, The. By Eu- 
gene Sue. Part I 80 

Mysteries of Paris, The. By Eu- 
gene Sue. Part II 30 

Mysterious Hunter, The; or, 
The Man of Death. By Capt. 

L. C. Carleton 20 

Mvstery, The. By Mrs. Henry 

Wood 20 

Mystery of a Hansom Cab, The. 

By Fergus W. Hume 20 

Mystery of Allan Grale, The. 

By Isabella Fyvie Mayo 20 

Mystery of an Omnibus, The. 

By F. Du Boisgobey 20 

Mvstery of a Turkish Bath, The 
By “ Rita ” 10 


501 

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113 

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606 

546 

440 

645 

339 

991 

256 

635 

596 

1145 

848 

405 

726 

1066 

799 

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724 

863 

504 

433 

861 

271 

271 

366 

255 

1075 

662 

1076 

1125 


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THE SEASIDE LIBRARY— Pocket Edition. 


960 Mystery of Colde Fell, The; or, 
Not Proven. By Charlotte M. 
Braerae, author of “Dora 

Thorne” 20 

454 Mystery of EMwinDrood, The. 

By Chas. Dickens 20 

614 Mystery of Jessy Page, The, 
and Other Tales. By Mrs. 

Henry Wood 10 

43 M.ystery of Orcival, The. By 

Emile Gaboriau 20 

985 Mystery of the Holly-Tree, 
The. By Charlotte M. Braeme, 
author of “ Dora Thorne ”... 20 
725 My Ten Years’ Imprisonment. 


By Silvio Pellico 10 

612 My Wife’s Niece. By author 
of “ Doctor Edith Bomuey ”. 20 
666 My Young Alcides. By Char- 
lotte M. Yonge 20 

574 Nabob, The: A Story of Paris- 
ian Life and Manners. By Al- 
phonse Daudet 20 

1012 Nameless Sin, A. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne” 20 

227 Nancy. By Rhoda Broughton 20 
509 NellHaffenden. By Tighe Hop- 
kins 20 

936 Nellie’s Memories. By Rosa 
Nouchette Carey. 1st half... 20 
936 Nellie’s Memories. By Rosa 
Nouchette Care.y. 2d half... 20 


181 New Abelard, The. By Robert 


Buchanan ^ 10 

856 New Arabian Nights. By Rob- 
ert Louis Stevenson 20 

464 Newcomes, The. By William 
Makepeace Thackeray. Part 

1 20 

464 Newcomes, The. By William 
Makepeace Thackeray. Part 

II 20 

52 New Magdalen, The. By Wilkie 

Collins 10 

1023 Next of Kin — Wanted. By M. 

Betham-Ed wards 20 

37 Nicholas Nickleby. By Charles 

Dickens. 1st half 20 

37 Nicholas Nickleby. By Charles 

Dickens. 2d half 20 

909 Nine of Hearts, The. By B. L. 

Farjeon 20 

1005 99 Dark Street. By F. W. Rob- 
inson 20 

105 Noble Wife, A. John Saunders 20 
864 “ No Intentions.” By Florence 

Marryat 20 

565 No Medium. By Annie Thomas 10 
1119 No Name. By Wilkie Collins. 

1st half 20 

1119 No Name. By Wilkie Collins. 

QA iiQif on 

1086 Nora. By Carl Detlef ’. '. ! ’. '. 20 
290 Nora’s Love Test. By Mary 

Cecil Hay 20 

595 North Country Maid, A. By 
Mrs. H. Lovett Cameron 20 


North Versus South; or, Tex- 
ar’s Vengeance. By Jules 

Verne. Parts I. and II 20 

No Saint. By Adeline Sergeant 20 
No Thoroughfare. By Dickens 

and Collins 10 

Not Like Other Girls. By Rosa 

Nouchette Carey. . . 20 

Not Proven; or. The Mystery 
of Colde Fell. By Charlotte 

M. Braeme 20 

Not Wisely, But Too Well. By 

Rhoda Broughton 20 

No. 99. By Arthur Griffiths.. 10 
No. XIII. ; or, 9’he Story of the 
Lost Vestal. Emma Marshall 10 
Nun’s Curse, The. By Mrs. J. 


H. Riddell 20 

Nuttie’s Father. By Charlotte 
M. Yonge 20 

Oak-Openings, The; or, The 
Bee-Hunter. By J. Fenimore 

Cooper 20 

Octoroon, The. By Miss M. E. 
Braddon It 


Old Age of M. Lecoq, The. By 

F. Du Boisgobey. 1st half 20 

Old Age of M. Lecoq, The. By 

F. Du Boisgobey. 2d half 20 

Old Contrairy, and Other Sto- 
ries. By Florence Marryat.. 10 
Old Curiosity Shop, The. By 


Charles Dickens 20 

Old Lady Mary. By Mrs. Oli- 

pliant iO 

Old Ma’m’selle’s Secret. By E. 

Marlitt 20 

Old Myddelton’s Money. By 

Mary Cecil Hay 20 

Oliver’s Bride. By Mrs. Oli- 

phant 10 

Oliver Twist. By Charles 

Dickens 20 

Orabra. By Mrs. Oliphant 20 

Omnia Vanitas. A Tale of So- 
ciety. By Mrs. Forrester 10 

Once Again. By Mrs. Forrester 20 
One False, Both Pair. By John 

B. Harwood 20 

One New Year’s Eve. By “ The 

Duchess” 10 

One Thing Needful; or. The 
Penalty of Fate. By Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

On Going Back. By H. Rider 

Haggard 20 

On Her Wedding Morn. By 

Charlotte M. Braeme 20 

On Horseback Through Asia 
Minor. By Captain Fred Bur- 
naby 20 

Only a Clod. By Miss M. E. 

Braddon 20 

Only a Coral Girl. By Gertrude 

Forde 20 

Only a Word. B}’ George Ebers 20 
Onl}’’ a Woman. Edited by Miss 
M. E. Braddon 20 


1011 

812 

168 

215 

969 

765 

614 

766 

1077 

640 

425 

211 

1088 

1088 

183 

10 

410 

858 

72 

645 

41 

605 

280 

883 

143 

342 

840 

1049 

985 

384 

498 

1072 

1112 

496 


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1064 Only the Governess. By Rosa 

Nouchette Carey 

655 Open Door, The. By Mrs. Oli- 

pliant 

998 Open, Sesame! By Florence 

Marry at 

708 Ormond. By Maria Edgeworth 
12 Otiier People's Money. By 

Emile Gaboriau 

639 Ot.hmar. By“Ouida.” 1st half 
639 Othmar. By'‘Oiiida.” 2d half 
859 Ottilie : An Eighteenth Century 

Idyl. By Vernon Lee 

838 Ought We to Visit Her? By 

Mrs. Annie Edwards 

Ill Our Mutual Friend. By Charles 

Dickens. 1st half 

131 Our Mutual Friend. By Charles 

Dickens. 2d half 

1133 Our New Mistress; or, Changes 
at Brookfield Earl. By Char- 
lotte M. Yonge 

747 Our Sensation Novel. Edited 
by Justin H. McCarthy, M.P. 
925 Outsider, The. Hawley Smart 
870 Out of His Reckoning. Bj^ 

Florence Marryat 

1130 Owl-House, The. A Posthu- 
mous Novel. By E. Marlitt. 
Finished by W. Heimburg. . . 


530 Pair of Blue Eyes, A. By 

Thomas Hardy 

587 Parson o’ Dumford, The. By 

G. Manville Fenn 

238 Pascarel. By “ Ouida ” 

1107 Passenger from Scotland 
Yard, The. By H. F. Wood . . 
822 Passion Flower, A. A Novel.. 
517 Passive Crime, A, and Other 
Stories. By “The Duchess ” 
886 Paston Carew, Millionaire and 
Miser. Mrs. E. Lynn Linton. 
309 Pathfinder, The. JBy J. Feni- 

more Cooper 

720 Paul Clifford. By’ Sir E. Bulwer 

Lytton, Bart 

571 Paul Carew's Story. By Alice 

Com v ns Carr 

.525 Paul Vargas, and Other Stor- 
ies. By Hugh Conway, au- 
thor of “ Called Back ” 

994 Penniless Orphan, A. By W. 

Heimburg 

449 Peeress and Player. By Flor- 
ence Marryat 

613 Percy and the Prophet. By 

Wilkie Collins 

776 P6re Goriot. By H. De Balzac 
311 Peril. By Jessie Fothergiil . . . 
965 Periwinkle. By Arnold Gray. 
568 Perpetual Curate, The. By Mrs. 

Oliphant 

133 Peter the Whaler. By William 

H. G. Kingston 

868 Petronel. By Florence Marryat 
392 Peveril of the Peak. By Sir 

Walter Scott 


326 Phantastes. A Faerie Romance 
for Men and Women, By 


George Macdonald 10 

56 Phantom Fortune. By Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

845 Philip Earnscliffe ; or. The Mor- 
als of May Fair. By Mrs. 

Annie Edwards 20 

336 Philistia. By Cecil Power 20 

669 Philosophy of Whist, The. By 
William Pole 30 


903 Phyllida. By Florence Marryat 20 
16 Phyllis. By “The Duchess”. 20 
372 Phyllis’ Probation. By tlie au- 
thor of “ His Wadded Wife ”. 10 
537 Piccadilly. Laurence Oliphant 10 
24 Pickwick Papers. By Charles 


Dickens. Vol. 1 20 

24 Pickwick Papers. By Charles 

Dickens. Vol. 11 20 

448 Pictures From Italy, and The 
Mud fog Papers. &c. By Chas. 
Dickens 20 

206 Picture, The. By Charles 

Reade 10 

264 Pi4douche, a French Detective. 

By Fortune Du Boisgobey... 10 
318 Pioneers, The; or, The Sources 
of the Susquehanna. By J. 

Fenirnore Cooper 20 

393 Pirate, The. Sir Walter Scott 20 
850 Playwright’s Daughter, A. By 

Mrs. Aiinie Edwards 10 

818 Pluck. By John Strange WTuter 10 
869 Poison of Asps, The, By Flor- 
ence Marryat. .■»». 10 

836 Point of Honor, A. By Mrs. An- 
nie Edwards 20 

1069 Polikouchka. By Count Lyof 

Tolstoi .' 10 

329 Polish Jew, The. (Translated 
from the French by Caroline 
A. Merighi.) By Erckmann- 

Chatrian 10 

831 Pomegranate Seed. By the au- 
thor of “ The Two Miss Flem- 
ings.” 20 

902 Poor Gentleman, A. By Mrs. 

Oliphant 20 

325 Portent, The. By George Mac- 

don aid 10 

6 Portia. By “The Duchess ”.. 20 
655 Portrait, The. By Mrs. Oliphant 10 
558 Poverty Corner. By G. Man- 
ville Fenn 20 

310 Prairie, The. By J. Fenirnore 

Cooper 20 

422 Precaution. By J. Fenirnore 

Cooper 20 

828 Prettiest Woman in Warsaw, 

The. By Mabel Collins 20 

697 Pretty Jailer, The. By F. Du 

Boisgobey. 1st half 20 

697 Pretty Jailer, The. By F. Du 
Boisgobey. 2d half 20 

207 Pretty Miss Neville. By B. M. 

Croker 20 

475 Prima Donna’s Husband, The. 

By F. Du Boisgobey 20 


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20 

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16 THE SEASIDE LIBRARY— Pocket Edition. 


581 Prime Minister, The. By An- 
thony Trollope. 1st half 20 

531 Prime Minister, The. By An- 
thony Trollope. 2d half. ..... 20 

624 Primus in ludis. By M. J. Col- 

quhoun 10 

1137 Prince Charming. By the au- 
thor of ‘‘A Great IMistake ”. . 20 
249 “Prince Charlie’s Daughter;” 
or, The Cost of Her Love. By 

Charlotte M. Braeme 10 

656 Prince of Darkness, A. Bj' F. 
Warden 20 

859 Prince of the 100 Soups, The. 

Edited by Vernon Lee 20 

704 Prince Otto. R. L. Stevenson . 10 
865 Princess Dagomar of Poland, 
The. Heinrich Felbermann. 10 
228 Princess Napraxine. “Ouida” 20 


1136 Princess of the Moor, The. By 


E. Marlitt 20 

23 Pi'incess of Thule, A. By AVill- 

iam Black 20 

1117 Princess Sarah. By John 
Strange Winter 10 

88 Privateersman, The. By Cap- 
tain Marry at 20 

321 Prodigals, The: And Their In- 
heritanc*. By Mrs. Oliphant. 10 

944 Professor, The. By Charlotte 

Bront6 20 

144 Promises of Marriage. By 

Emile Gaboriau.. 10 

260 Proper Pride. By B. M. Croker 10 
947 Publicans and Sinners; or, Lu- 
cius Davoren. By Miss M. E. 
Braddon. 1st half 20 

947 Publicans and Sinners; or, Lu- 
cius Davoren. By Miss M. E. 

Braddon. 2d half 20 

1000 Puck. By “Ouida.” 1st half 20 
1000 Puck. Ay “Ouida.” 2d half 20 
912 Pure Gold. By Mrs. H. Lovett 

Cameron. 1st half 20 

912 Pure Gold. By Mrs. H. Lovett 
Cameron. 2d half 20 

516 Put Asunder ; or, Lady Castle- 
maine’s Divorce. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 

“Dora Thorne” 20 

487 Put to the Test. Edited by 

Miss M. E. Braddon 20 

214 Put Yourself in His Place. By 
Charles Reade 20 

68 Queen Amongst Women, A. By 

Charlotte M. Braeme 10 

932 Queenie’s Whim. ByRosaNou- 

chette Carey. 1st half 20 

932 Queenie’s Whim. ByRosaNou- 

cliette Carey. 2d half 20 

591 Queen of Hearts, The. By Wil- 
kie Collins 20 

1061 Queei’ Race, A : The Story of 
a Strange People. By William 
Westall 20 


641 Rabbi’s Spell, The. By Stuart 

C. Cumberland 10 

147 Rachel Ray. By Anthony Trol- 
lope 20 

661 Rainbow Gold. By David Chris- 
tie Murray 20 

433 Rainy June, A. By “ Ouida ”. 10 
700 Ralph the Heir. By Anthony 

Trollope. 1st half 20 

700 Ralph the Heir. By Anthony 

Trollope. 2d half 20 

815 Ralph Wilton’s Weird. By Mrs. 

Alexander 10 

442 Ranthorpe. By George Henry 
Lewes 20 

780 Rare Pale Margaret. By the au- 
thor of “ What’s His Offence?” 20 
279 Rattlin, the Reefer. By Captain 

I\Iarrya,t 20 

327 Raymond’s Atonement. (From 
the German of E. Werner.) 

By Christina Tyrrell 20 

210 Readiana: Comments on Cur- 
rent Events. By Chas. Reade 10 
1138 Recoiling Vengeance, A. By 

Frank Barrett 20 

768 Red as a Rose is She. By Rhoda 

Broughton 20 

918 Red Band, The. By F. Du Bois- 

gobey. 1st half 20 

918 Red Baud, The. By F. Du Bois- 

gobey. 2d half 20 

381 Red Cardinal, The. By Frances 

Elliot 10 

1021 Red-Court Farm, The. By Mrs. 

Henry Wood 20 

73 Redeemed by Love; or, Love’s 
Victory. By Charlotte M. 

Braeme 20 

89 Red Eric, The. By R. M. Ballan- 

tyne 10 

463 Redgauntlet. By Sir Walter 

Scott 20 

580 Red Route, The. By William 
Si me 20 


361 Red Rover. The. A Tale of the 
Sea. By J. Fen i more Cooper 20 
421 Redskins, The; or, Indian and 
Injin. Being the conclusion 
of the Littlepage Manuscripts. 


By J. Fenimore Cooper 20 

427 Remarkable History of Sir 
Thomas Upmore, Bart., M.P., 
The. Formerly known as 
“Tommy Upmore.” By R. 

D. Blackmore 20 

237 Repented at Leisure. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 
‘^T)ora Thorne.” (Large type 

edition) .. 20 

967 Repented at Leisure. By Char- 
lotte IM. Braeme, author of 

“ Dora Thorne ” 10 

1146 Rhoda Fleming. By George 

Meredith. 1st half 20 

1146 Rhoda Fleming. By George 

Meredith. 2d half 20 

740 Rhona. By Mrs. Forrester, ... 20 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY— Pocket Edition. 


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375 Ride to Khiva, A. By Captain 
Fred Burnaby, of the Royal 

Horse Guards 20 

1144 Rienzi. By Sir E. Buhver Lyt- 

ton. 1st half 20 

1144 Rienzi. By Sir E. Buhver Lyt- 

ton. 2d half . 20 

1116 Robert Elsmere. By Mrs. 

Humpliry Ward. 1st half 20 

1116 Robert Elsmere. By Mrs. 

Humphry Ward. 2d half 20 

-^6 Robert Ord’s Atonement. By 

Rosa Nouchette Carey 20 

976 Robur the Conqueror; or, A 
Trip Round the World in a * ' 
Flying Machine. By Jules 
Verne 20 

1141 Rogue, The. By W. E. Norris. 

1st half 20 

1141 Rogue, The. By W. E. Norris. 

2d half 20 

816 Rogues and Vagabonds. By 
George R. Sims, author of 

“’Ostler Joe” 20 

190 Romance of a Black Veil. By 
Charlotte M. Braeme, author 

of “Dora Thorne” 10 

741 Romance of a Young Girl, The ; 
or. The Heiress of Hilldrop. 

By Charlotte M. Braeme 20 

66 Romance of a Poor Young Man, 

The. By Octave Feuillet 10 

139 Romantic Adventures of a 
Milkmaid, The. By Thomas 

Hardy 10 

898 Romeo and Juliet: A Tale of 
Two Young Fools. By Will- 
iam Black 20 

42 Romola. By George Eliot 20 

360 Rones of Sand. By R. E. Fran- 

cillon 20 

664 Rory O’More. Samuel Lover 20 
193 Rosery Folk, The. By G. Man- 

ville Fenn 10 

670 Rose and the Ring, The. By 
W. M. Thackeray. Illustrated 10 
119 Rose Distill’d, A. By “The 

Duchess” 10 

103 Rose Fleming. By Dora Russell 10 
296 Rose in Thorns, A. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 


129 Rossmoyne. By “The Duche.ss” 10 
180 Round the Galley Fire. By W. 

Clark Russell 10 

J163 Round the Moon. By Jules 

Verne. Illustrated 20 

B66 Royal Highlanders, The; or. 
The Black Watch in Egypt. 

By James Grant 20 

736 Roy and Viola. Mrs. Forrester 20 
409 Roy’s Wife. By G. J. Whyte- ‘ 

Melville 20 

489 Rupert Godwin. By Miss M. E. 

Braddon 20 

4S7 Russians at the Gates of Herat, 


The. By Charles Marvin. ... 10 


Sabina Zembra. By William 

Black. 1st half 20 

Sabina Zembra. By William 

Black. 2d half 20 

Sacred Nugget, The. By B. L. 

Farjeon 20 

Saint Michael. By E. Werner. 

1st half 20 

Saint Michael. By E. Werner. 

2d half 20 

Sailor’s Sweetheart, A. ByW. 

Clark Russell 20 

Salem Chapel. Mrs. Oliphant 20 
Sam’s Sweetheart. By Helen 

B. Mathers 20 

Satanstoe; or, The Littlepage 
Manuscripts. By J. Fenimore 

Cooper 20 

Scheherazade: A London 
Night’s Entertainment. By 

Florence Warden 20 

Scottish Chiefs, The. By Miss 

Jane Porter. 1st half 20 

Scottish Chiefs, The. By Miss 

Jane Porter. 2d half 20 

Sculptor’s Daughter, The. By 
F. Du Boisgobey. 1st half ... 20 
Sculptor’s Daughter, The. By 

F. Du Boisgobey. 2d half 20 

Sea Cliange, A. By Flora L. 

Shaw 20 

Sealed Lips. F. Du Boisgobey 20 
Sea Lions, The; or. The Lost 
Sealers. By J. F. Cooper — 20 
Sea Queen, A. By W. Clark 

Russell 20 

Sebastopol. By Count Lyof 

Tolstoi 20 

Second Life, A. By Mrs. Alex- 
ander 20 

Second Thoughts. By Rlioda 

Broughton 20 

Second Wife, The. By E. Mar- 

litt 20 

Secret Dispatch, The. By 

James Grant 10 

Secret of Her Life, The. By Ed- 
ward Jenkins 20 

Secret of the Cliffs, The. By 

Charlotte French 20 

Self-Doomed. By B. L. Farjeon 10 
“ Self or Bearer.” By Walter 

Besant 10 

Serapis. By George Ebers — 20 
Set in Diamonds. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne” 20 

Severed Hand, The. By F. Du 

Boisgobey. 1st half 20 

Severed Hand, The. By F, Du 

Boisgobe 3 \ 2d half. 20 

Shadow in the Corner, The. By 

Miss M. E. Braddon 10 

Shadow of a Crime, The. By 

Hall Caine 20 

Shadow of a Sin, The. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 
“Dora Thorne” 10 


962 

962 

616 

1067 

1067 

223 

177 

795 

* 420 

1037 

660 

660 

699 

699 

441 

82 

423 

85 

1108 

490 

101 

999 

781 

810 

387 

607 

651 

474 

792 

10S2 

1082 

548 

445 

293 


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18 THE SEASIDE LIBRARY— Pocket Edition. 


948 Shadow of a Sin, 'J’he. By Char- 
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edition) 20 

18 Shaudon Bells. By Wm. Black 20 
988 Shattered Idol, The. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 

“Dora Thorne” 20 

910 She: A History of Adventure. 

By H. Rider Haggard 20 

141 She Loved Him! By Annie 
Thomas 10 

520 She's All the World to Me. By 

Hall Caine 10 

801 She Stoops to Conquer. By 

Oliver Goldsmith 10 

57 Shirley. By Charlotte Bronte 20 
966 Siege Baby, A. By John 

Strange Winter 20 

239 Signa. By“Ouida” 20 

1052 Signa’s Sweetheart. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 

“ Dora Thorne ” 20 

707 Silas Maruer ; The Weaver of 
Raveloe. By George Eliot. . . 10 
1034 Silence of Dean Maitland, The. 

By Blaxwell Gray 20 

913 Silent Shore, The. By John 

Bloundelle- Burton 20 

1110 Silverado Squatters, The. By 

R. L. Stevenson 10 

539 Silvermead. By Jean Middle- 

mas 20 

681 Singer’s Story, A. By May 

Lalfan 10 

252 Sinless Secret, A. By “ Rita ” 10 

283 Sin of a Lifetime, The. By 
Charlotte M. Bi’aeme, author 

of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

515 Sir Jasper’s Tenant. By Miss 

M. E. Braddon 20 

1114 Sisters, The. By George Ebers 20 
643 Sk etch-book jof Geoffrey Cray- 
on, Gent, The. By Washing- 
ton Irving 20 

456 Sketches by Boz. Illustrative 
of Every-day Life and Every- 
day People. By Charles Dick- 

0J2S 20 

1078 Slaves of Paris, The. — Black- 
mail. By Emile Gaboriau. 1st 

half 20 

1078 Slaves of Paris, The. — The 
Champdoce Secret. By Emile 

Gaboriau. 2d half 20 

601 Slings and Arrows, and other 
Stories. By Hugh Conway, 
author of “Called Back”... 10 

491 Society in Loudon. By a For- 
eign Resident 10 

505 Society of London, The. By 

Count Paul Vasili 10 

778 Society’s Verdict. By the au- 
thor of “ My Marriage ” 20 

114 Some of Our Girls. By Mrs. C. 

J. Eiloart 20 

412 Some One Else. B. M. Croker 20 
194 “So Near, and Yet So Far!” 

By Alison 10 


880 Son of His Father, The. By 

Mrs. Oliphant 20 

368 Southern Star, The; or. The 
Diamond Land. Jules Verne 20 
926 Springhaven. By R. D. Black- 

more. 1st half 20 

926 Springhaven. By R. D. Black- 
more. 2d half 20 

63 Spy, The. J. Fenimore Cooper 20 
793 Squire’s Darling, The. By 
Charlotte M. Braeme, author 

of “ Dora Thorne ” 20 

281 Squire’s I egacy. The. By Mary 

Cecil Hay 20 

817 Stabbed in the Dark. By Mrs. 

E. Lynn Linton 10 

895 Star and a Heart, A. By Flor- 
ence Marry at 10 

158 Starling, The. By Norman 

Macleod, D.D 10 

436 Stella. By Fanny Lewald 20 

802 Stern Chase, A. By Mrs. 

Cashel-Hoey 20 

846 Steven Lawrence. By Mrs. 

Annie Edwards. 1st half 20 

846 Steven Lawrence. By Mrs. 
Annie Edwards. 2d half 20 

14b “ Storm-Beaten God and The 
Man. By Robert Buchanan. 20 
1074 Stormy Waters. By Robert 

Buchanan 20 

1120 Story of an African Farm, The. 

By Ralph Iron (Olive Schrei- 
ner.) 20 

673 Story of a Sin. By Helen B. 

20 

610 Story of Dorothy (>rape. The, 
and Other Tales. By Mrs. 

Henry Wood 10 

53 Story of Ida, The. By Fran- 
cesca 10 

1096 Strange Adventures of a 
House - Boat, The. By Will- 
iam Black 20 

50 Strange Adventures of a Phae- 
ton, The. By William Black. 20 
756 Strange Adventures of Captain 
Dangerous, The. By George 

Augustus Sala 20 

686 Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and 
Mr. Hyde. By Robert Louis 

Stevenson 10 

524 Strangers and Pilgrims. By 

Miss M. E. Braddon 20 

83 Strange Story, A. By Sir E. 

Bulwer Lytton 20 

592 Strange Voyage, A. By W. 

Clark Russell 20 

511 Strange World, A. By Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

974 Strathmore; or. Wrought by 
His Own Hand. By “ Ouida.” 

1st half 20 

974 Strathmore; or, Wrought by 
His Own Hand. By “ Ouida.” 

2d half 20 

418 St. Ronan’s Well. By Sir Wal- 
ter Scott. 20 


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550 Struck Down. Hawley Smart 10 
467 Struggle fora Ring-, A. Char- 
lotte M. Braeme 20 

71 Struggle for Fame, A. By Mrs. 

J. H. Riddell 20 

745 Struggle for Love, A; or, For 
Another’s Siu. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne” 20 

964 Struggle for the Right, A; or. 
Tracking the Truth 20. 

222 Suu-Maid, The. By Miss Grant 20 
21 Sunrise: A Story of These 

Times. By Wm. Black 20 

250 Sunshine and Roses; or, Di- 
ana’s Discipline. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “Dora 

Thorne” 10 

863 Surgeon’s Daughter, The. By 

Sir Walter Scott 10 

27'7 Surgeon’s Daughters, The. By 
Mrs. Henry Wood 10 

844 Susan Fielding. By Mrs. Annie 

Edwards , 20 

927 Sweet Cymbeline. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, auihor of 

“Dora Thorne” 20 

128 Sweet is True Love. By “ The 

Duchess 10 

816 Sworn to Silence; or. Aline 
Rodney’s Secret. By Mrs. 
Alex. McVeigh Miller 20 

569 Taken at the Flood. By Miss 

M. E. Brad don 20 

117 Tale of the Shore and Ocean, 

A. By Wm. H. G. Kingston . . 20 
1049 Tale of Three Lions, A. By H. 

Rider Ha»:gard 20 

77 Tale of Two Cities, A. By 

Charles Dickens 20 

343 Talk of the Town, The. By 

James Payn 20 

1142 Ten Thousand a Year. By 
Samuel Warren. Parti 20 


1142 Ten Thousand a Year. By 

Samuel Warren. Part II 20 

1142 Ten Thou.sand a Year. By 
Samuel Warren. Part III 20 

213 Terrible Temptation, A. By 


Chas. Reade. . . 20 

1011 Texar’s Vengeance; or. North 
Versus South. By Jules Verne. 

Part 1 20 

1011 Texar’s Vengeance ; or. North 
Versus South. By Jules Verne. 

Part II 20 

696 Thaddeus of Warsaw. By Miss 

Jane Porter 20 

995 That Beautiful Lady. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 

“ Dora Thorne ” 20 

49 That Beautiful Wretch. By 

William Black 20 

136 “That Last Rehearsal,” and 
Other Stories. By “ The 
Duchess ” 10 1 


915 That Other Person. B}^ Mrs. 

Alfred Hunt. 1st half 20 

915 That Other Person. By Mrs. 

Alfred Hunt. 2d half 20 

355 That Terrible Man. By W. E. 

Norris 10 

892 That Winter Night; or. Love's 
Victory. Robert Buchanan. . 10 
1131 Thelma. By Marie Corelli. 

1st half 20 

1131 Thelma. By Marie Corelli. 2d 

half 20 

48 Thicker than Water. By 

James Payn . 20 

184 Thirlby Hall. By W. E. Norris 20 
1045 13th Hussars, The. By Emile 
Gaboriau 20 

1008 Thorn in Her Heart, A. By 
Charlotte M. Braeme, author 

of “ Dora Thorne ” . . 20 

148 Thorns and Oi*ange-Blossoms. 

By Charlotte M. Braeme, au- 
thor of “Dora Thorne” 10 

1015 Thousand Francs Reward, A. 

By Emile Gaboriau 20 

275 Three Brides, The. By Char- 
lotte M. Yonge 10 

775 Three Clerks,The. By Anthony 

Trollope 20 

124 Three Feathers. By Wm. Black 20 
55 Three Guardsmen, The. By 
Alexander Dumas 20 


382 Three Sisters ; or, Sketches of 
a Highly Original Famil}’’. 

By Elsa D’Esterre-Keeling. . . 10 
1109 Through the Long Nights By 

Mrs. E. Lynn Linton. 1st half 20 
1109 Through the Long Nights. By 
Mrs. E. Lynn Linton. 2d lialf 20 

789 Through the Looking-Glass, 
and What Alice Found There. 

By Lewis Carroll. With fifty 
iliustrations by John Tenniel. 20 
471 Thrown on the World. By Char- 


lotte M. Braeme, author of 

“Dora Thorne” 20 

833 Ticket No. “9672.” By Jules 

Verne. 1st half 10 

833 Ticket No. “ 9672.” By Jules 

Vei-ne. 2d half 10 

367 Tie and Trick. Hawley Smart 20 
485 Tinted Vapours. J. Maclaren 

Cobban 10 

503 Tinted Venus, The. F. Anstey. 10 
980 To Call Her Mine. By Walter 

Besant 20 

1139 Tom Brown at Oxford. By 

Thomas Hughes. Vol. 1 20 

1139 Tom Brown ac Oxford. By 

Thomas Hughes. Vol. II 20 

120 Tom Brown’s School Days at 
Rugby. By Thomas Hughes. 20 
243 Tom Burke of “Ours.” By 

Charles Lever. 1st half 20 

243 Tom Burke of “Ours.” By 

Charles Lever. 2d half 20 

1081 Too Curious. By Edward J. 
Goodman — 20 


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667 To the Bitter End. By Miss M. 

E. Braddon 

879 Touchstone of Peril, Tlie. By 

R. E. Forrest 

1050 Tour of the World in 80 Days, 

The. By Jules Verne 

888 Treasure Island. Robert Louis 

Stevenson 

1017 Tricotrin. The Story of a Waif 
and Stray. By Ouida.” 1st 
half 

1017 Tricotrin. The Story of a Waif 

and Stray. By “ Ouida.” 2d 

half 

863 True Magdalen, A. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 

“ Dora 'rhorne ” 

945 Trumpet-Major, The. Thomas 

Hardy 

346 Tumbledown Farm. By Alan 

Muir 

100 20,000 Leagues Under the Seas. 

By Jules Verne 

75 Twenty Years After. By Alex- 
ander Dumas 

714 ’Twixt Love and Duty. By 

Tighe Hopkins 

924 ’Twixt Smile and Tear. Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 

“ Dora Thorne ” 

349 Two Admirals, The. A Tale of 
the Sea. By J. Fenimore 

Cooper 

1073 Two Generations. By Count 

Lyof Tolstoi 

307 Two Kisses. By Charlotte M. 
Braeme, author of “ Dora 
Thorne ” 

1018 Two Marriages. ByMissMul- 

ock 

784 Two Miss Flemings, The. By 
the author of ” AVhat’s His Of- 
fence ?” 

242 Two Orphans, The. By D’En- 

nery 

563 Two Sides of the Shield, The. 

By Charlotte M. Yonge 

311 Two Years Before the Mast. 

By R. H. Dana, jr 

407 TylneyHall. By Thomas Hood 


983 Uarda. By George Ebers 

862 Ugly Barrington. By “ The 

Duchess.” 

137 Uncle Jack. By Walter Besant 
541 Uncle Jack. By Waiter Besant 
930 Uncle Max. By RosaNouchette 

Carey. 1st iialf 

930 Uncle Max. By Rosa N ouchette 

Carey. 2(1 half 

152 Uncommercial Traveler, The. 

By Charles Dickens 

174 Under a Ban. By Mrs. Lodge 
1123 Under - Currents. By ” 'I'he 

Duchess.” 

460 Under a Shadow. By Char- 
lotte M. Bi-aeme, author of 
“ Dora Thorne ” 


852 Under Five Lakes; or, The 
Cruise of the ” Destroyer.” 

By BI. Quad 20 

276 Under the Lilies and Roses. 

By Florence Blarryat (BIrs. 

Francis Lean) 10 

110 Under the Red Flag. By Bliss 

BI. E. Braddon 10 

1024 Under the Storm; or. Stead- 
fast’s Charge. By Charlotte 

BI. Yonge 20 

4 Under Two Flags. By ”Ouida” 20 

340 Under Which King? By Comp- 
ton Reade 20 

718 Unfairly Won. By BIrs. Power 

O’Donoghue 20 

634 Unforeseen, The. By Alice 

O’Hanlon ; . . 20 

508 Unholy Wish, The. By BIrs. 

Henry Wood 10 

735 Until the Day Breaks. By 

Emily Spender 20 

654 “’Us.” An Old-fashioned Story. 

By BIrs. Bloles worth 10 

837 Vagabond Heroine, A. By BIrs. 

Annie Edwards 10 

482 Vagrant Wife, A. F. Warden 20 

691 Valentine Strange. ^.By David 

Christie Blurray 20 

189 Valerie’s Fate. By BIrs. Alex- 


27 Vanity Fair. By William M. 

Thackeray. 1st half 20 

27 Vanity Fair. By William BI. 

Thackeray. 2d half 20 

1068 Vendetta! or. The Story of 
One Forgotten. By Marie 

Corelli .... 20 

426 Venus’s Doves. By Ida Ash- 
worth Taylor 20 

891 Vera Nevill; or. Poor Wisdom’s 
Chance. By BIrs. H. Lovett 

Cameron 20 

46 Very Hard Cash. By Charles 
R*09/Cl0 20 

59 Vice Versa. By F. Anstey... 20 
716 Victor and Vanquished. By 

Blary Cecil Ha 3 ' 20 

58o Victory Deane. Cecil Griffith 20 
545 Vida's Story. By author of 

“ Guilty Without Crime ” 10 

734 Viva. By BIrs. Fon-ester 20 

793 Vivian Grey. By the Rt. Hon. 
Benjamin Disraeli, Earl of 

Beaconsfield. 1st half 20 

793 Vivian Grey. By the Rt. Hon. 
Benjamin Disraeli, Earl of 

Beaconsfield. 2d half 20 

835 Vivian the Beauty. By BIrs. 

Annie Hid wards 20 

283 Vivien’s Atonement; or, The 
Sin of a Lifetime. B.y Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 

” Dora Thorne ” 10 

204 Vixen. B.y Bliss BI. E. Braddon 20 
777 Voyages and Travels of Sir 
John Maundeville, Kt., The. . 10 


20 

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THE SEASIDE LIBRARY — Pocket Edition. 


21 


884 Vo.yag:e to the Cape, A. By W. 
Clark Russell 20 


669 Waif of the “ Cynthia,” The. 

By Jules Verne 20 

9 Wanda, Countess von Szalras. 

By ‘“Ouida” 20 

270 Wandering Jew, The. By Eu- 
gene Sue. Part 1 30 

270 Wandering Jew, Tlie. By Eu- 
gene Sue. Part II 30 

621 Warden, The. By Anthony 

Trollope 10 

266 Water-Babi(\s, Tlie. A Fairy 
Tale for a Laud-Baby. By the 

Rev. Charles Kingsley 10 

612 Waters of Hercules, The 20 

112 Waters of Marah, The. By 

John Hill 20 

859 AVater- Witch, The. By J. Feni- 

inore Cooper 20 

401 Waverley. By Sir Walter Scott 20 
195 ’* Way of the World, The.” By 

David Christie Murray 20 

415 AVays of the Hour, The. By J. 

Fenimore Cooper 20 

344 “ Wearing of the Green, The.” 

By Basil 20 

943 Weavers and AVeft; or, Love 
Tliat Hath Us in His Net.” 

By Miss M. E. Bi’addon 20 

961 AVee AVifie. By Rosa N. Carey 20 

312 AVeek in KillarQe3% A. By “The 

Duchess” 10 

458 AA’eek of Passion, A; or. The 
Dilemma of Mr. George Bar- 
ton the Younger. By Edward 

Jenkins 20 

79 AVedded and Parted. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 

“Dora Thorne” 10 

628 AVedded Hands. By the author 

of “ My Lady’s Folly ” 20 

400 Wept of AA^ish-Ton-AVish, The. 

By J. Fenimore Cooper 20 

637 AViiat’s His Offence? By author 
of “ The 'two Miss Flemings ” 20 
722 AATiat’s Mine’s Mine. George 

Macdonald 20 

679 AVhere Two AVays Meet. By 

Sarah Doudney 10 

220 Which Loved Him Best? By 

Charlotte M. Braeme ’. 10 

236 AVhich Shall It Be? By Mrs. 
Alexander 20 


627 AATiite Heather. ByAVm. Black 20 
70 White Wings: A Yachting Ro- 
mance. By AVilliam Black . . 10 
335 AVhite Witch, The. A Novel.. 20 
939 AVhy Not? Florence Marry at. 20 
849 AVicked Girl, A. Bj’ Mary Cecil 


Hay 20 

38 Widow Lerouge, The. B}^ Emile 

Gaboriau 20 

76 Wife in Name Only; or, A Bro- 
ken Heart. By Charlotte M. 
Braeme, author of “ Dora 
Thoi'ne ” 20 


AA’ife’s Secret, The, and Fair 
but False. By Charlotte M. 
Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne ” 10 

AVillful Maid, A. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “Dora 
Thorne” 20 

Willful Young AVoman, A 20 

AVill AVeatherhelm. By Wm. 

H. G. Kingston 20 

AVing-and-AVing. By J. Feni- 
more Cooper 20 

AA^inifred Power. By Joyce Dar- 
rell .‘ 20 

AVise AA^omen of Inverness, 

The. ByAVm. Black 10 

AVitching Hour, The. and Other 
Stories. Bv “ The Duchess ”. 10 
AVitch’s Head, The. By H. 
Rider Haggard 20 

With Cupid’s Eyes. By Flor- 
ence Marry at 20 

AVithin an Inch of His Life. 

By Emile Gaboriau 20 

AVithin the Clasp. By J. Ber- 
wick Harwood 20 

Witness My Hand. By the au- 
thor of “ Lady Gwendolen’s 

Tryst ” 10 

AVdOdlanders, The. By Thomas 

Hardy 20 

Woman-Hater, A. By Charles 
Reade 20 

Woman I Loved, The, and the 
Women AA^ho Loved Me. By 
Isa Blagden 10 


Woman in White, The. AVilkie 
Collins. Illustrated. 1st half 20 
AA’’omau in AATiite, The. AVilkie 
Collins. Illustrated. 2d half 20 
AVoman’s Error, A. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 


“ Dora Thorne ” 20 

AVoman’s Face, A. By F. War- 
den 20 

Woman’s Love-Story, A. By 
Charlotte M. Braeme, author 

of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

AVoman’s Temptation, A. By 
Chai lotte M. Braeme. (Large 
type edition) 20 

AVoman’s Temptation, A. By 
Charlotte M. Braeme, author 

of “ Dora Tliorne ” 10 

Woman’s War, A. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme, author of 

“Dora Thorne” 10 

AVoman’s War, A. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme. (Large type edi- 
tion) 20 

W’^oman’s AA’it, By. By Mrs. Al- 
exander 20 


AVooed and Married. By Rosa 
Nouchette Carey. 1st half... 20 
AA^ooed and Married. By Rosa 
Nouchette Carey. 2d half - ... 20 


254 

323 

908 

761 

373 

163 

472 

134 

432 

872 

20 

358 

809 

957 

98 

705 

701 

701 

854 

1087 

322 

459 

951 

295 

952 

900 

934 

934 


22 


THE SEASIDE LIBRAEY— Pocket Edition. 


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821 World Between Them, The. By 
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906 World Went Very Well Then, 

The. By Walter Besant 20 

963 Worth Winning. By Mrs. H. 

Lovett Cameron 20 

1048 Wreck of the “Grosvenor,” 
The. By W. Clark Russell. . . 20 
865 Written in Fire. By Florence 
Marrj-at 20 

380 Wyandotte; or, The Hutted 
Knoll. By J. Fenimore Cooper 20 
434 Wyllard’s Weird. By Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 


1 Yolande. By William Black. 20 
1102 Young Mr. Barter’s Repent- 
ance. By David Christie Mur 

ray 10 

1053 Young Mrs. Jardine. By Miss 
Mulock 20 

709 Zenobia; or. The Fall of Pal- 
myra. By William Ware. 

1st half 20 

709 Zenobia; or. The Fall of Pal- 
myra. By William Ware. 

2d lialf 20 

428 Zero: A Story of TMonte-Carlo. 

By Mrs. Campbell-Praed 10 

522 Zig-Zag, the Clown: or. The 
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669 Pole on Whist 20 


432 THE WITCH’S HEAD. By 

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1157 A Two Years’ Vacation. Illus- 

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1159 Mr. Fortescue. An Andean 

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1160 We Two. By Edna Lyall. 1st 

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1162 The Weaker Vessel. By David 

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1163 The Phantom City. A Volcanic 

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1164 Rob Roj", By Sir Walter Scott, 

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1164 Rob Roy. By Sir Walter Scott, 

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1165 The Sea-King. By Captain 

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1169 Commodore Junk. ByG. Man- 

ville Fenn 20 

1173 Won by W^aiting. By Edna 

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1176 Guilderoy. By “Ouida” 20 


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